


Of Pining & Addiction

by foxfae



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: (not a big spoiler), (poor lucien), Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Addiction, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Love, PTSD, Romance, Slow Burn, Trauma, there will be maiming of wings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2020-03-01 07:55:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18796168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxfae/pseuds/foxfae
Summary: Choices and revelations push Lucien to seek refuge in the Night Court, where he meets Mira, the first female Illyrian to win the Blood Rite. Still reeling from rejection, she seeks only the unattainable things which the elusive mating bond promises - love and affection. However, in a mess of bonds, desires, loneliness and trauma, Lucien and Mira challenge fate by falling in love.[Lucien x OC] [regular updates]





	1. i.i: introductions

**Author's Note:**

> this work will deal with some heavy things, like ianthe's sexual assault of lucien & other abuse, drug addiction, as well as eventual grievous violence. just a heads up. stay safe and take care <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucien and Mira meet for the first time at a gathering at Rhys' townhouse, something they attend rather begrudgingly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah man! i'm pretty excited for this work and how the relationship's going to develop, but it'll take time. thank you for reading & i hope you enjoy x

Lucien regarded his untouched drink of rum, thinking it the safest place to lock his gaze. Around him, the warmth of faelight and the murmur of conversation, but it was no longer accompanied by the fiddles of Spring, or the titters of mortals – it was the humdrum of the Night Court’s Inner Circle inside the High Lord’s townhouse.

He couldn’t believe he had actually decided to take Feyre up on her offer of refuge, but he had grown tired, and needed time. The search for Vassa and working with the Band of Exiles in the mortal lands hadn’t been able to distract him from what he was truly running from – himself, his past, and gods damn it, even his future. Looking around him, at all their faces – Feyre, of course; the two Illyrian males, Cassian and Azriel, who had helped them when they’d been hunted by his own brothers; High Lord Rhysand, too, and his cousin, the Morrigan – he wondered whether tensions against him had dulled or festered since he’d last been here; either way, he was sure they would keep him guessing.

Of course, there was Elain, too, laughing at something Mor whispered to her during their conversation with the Illyrians. The years away had done him some good; the mating bond’s pull wasn’t so strong anymore. He had only been here a few days, and they’d exchanged a few niceties – the politeness between them no longer too awkward. It seemed that Nesta was still cold toward everyone – in fact, the only time he’d seen her was in the doorway when he arrived, on her way out. Lucien’s glance passed over Rhys and Feyre in the corner, quickly looking away at the sight of their caresses. This was a good time to get out of the fray.

Manoeuvring his way through to the balcony, taking care not to linger, not to stare – ever the courtier – he stepped into the crisp evening air, right into the company of yet another at the railing. Brows furrowing, he grew cautious – he _knew_ everyone invited was inside. However, he had no authority here, and deferred. “Excuse me, I didn’t—”

But his breath hitched as the figure turned. It was an Illyrian female standing before him, eyes drawn immediately to her big, black, membranous wings, talons gleaming on top. She was dressed in those leathers he had seen the others sport occasionally, a stark contrast to the finery everyone was clad in tonight. Sable hair was pulled back into what seemed like battle braids, her face drawn in the twilight.

She regarded Lucien as he regarded her. He had never seen an Illyrian woman before, and frankly, he was borderline intimidated. Remembering those lethal tones and short tempers, he carefully looked for those special jewels on her armour, but she had none.

“It’s alright,” she said, a wry tone lilting her voice as her gaze flicked beyond the doorway. “Not enjoying the party either?”

He let out a breathy chuckle, raising his glass slightly in a wordless admittance. “A friend of the Circle?” he ventured, thinking it safe enough to join her at the railing. She returned to what he guessed she was doing before – staring out at the street below, the river sparkling beyond. He appreciated the architectural prettiness of a citadel, but preferred the classical simplicities of a country manor.

“A colleague,” she murmured after a while. Lucien thought she must have been more than that, for she was here, in the High Lord’s townhouse of all places.  “I’m sorry. My assignments take me away regularly – every time I return, Velaris is changed. Are you a guest of the Night Court?”

“It seems so, yes,” he replied, only somewhat rueful. The woman seemed to pick up on it, though, turning back to him. Eager to talk of anything other than what brought him here, he said, “I’m Lucien.”

“ _Lucien…_ ,” she echoed, seeming to look at him with new eyes. “You’re the one who helped her.”

“Feyre?” he clarified, and his metal eye whirred as he noticed her jaw clench at the mention of the name. Experienced in court politics, Lucien couldn’t help himself from filing that instance away, wondering what her role was in the Circle’s dynamics. It was so lively with them, everyone having both say and sway – so unlike Tamlin and his singular rule, but Lucien shook his head. He didn’t want to think about Tamlin, or anything else he had left behind.

“Your eye,” she started, and Lucien deflated, knowing where this was going. “No,” she amended, seeming to understand his reservation. “Can you see through it?”

“I can,” he admitted, not knowing why he was feeling so put out at having to revisit the whole explanation – it was asked of him wherever he went. Her brows rose, taking one step closer as she regarded the work of gold. The woman was shorter than him, but this didn’t diminish her presence at all.

“How does it work?” she asked, and Lucien frowned, caught unawares. He was asked about his eye, yes, but always concerning the way it had been lost – not how this one functioned. People probably assumed it was merely for appearance; he knew that most didn’t care beyond the gory story behind it.

“Magic and tinkering.”

“Clever,” she mused, genuine marvel in her voice. “My name is Mira.”

Before the lull could drag, Cassian stumbled through the doorway to her, the lopsided grin on his face telling of a few drinks. “Come dance with us,” he slurred, “at Rita’s.” Some of the hair had already fallen out from his bun, and Lucien busied himself again with studying the contents of his glass.

He caught her glancing back inside, Mor’s voice flowing outdoors along with Rhys’ rumbling laugh. Her smile was tight as she shook her head at Cassian.

“Not tonight.”

“Not even to celebrate your return?” he tried, but she only looked away. It was dark now, night fully upon them. Cassian deflated, murmuring, “I remember the days when you’d dance with us. Miss that.”

“I recall,” she mumbled.

“Glad you’re back, though,” he said, Mira brightening a little at the words. She nodded, lifting her hand in goodbye as he left again, called forth by another opening of a wine bottle.

She leaned her elbows on the railing, dropping her head to rub at her temples. He wondered what sort of assignments she would have in peacetime – no doubt still serving as a fighter, hailing from such a warrior race of faeries.

“They’re just a little… _much_ , sometimes,” she sighed. She didn’t have to explain herself to him, but he conceded nonetheless, knowing exactly what she meant. Mira seemed to regain some agency as she lifted her head, taking a breath before heading for the doorway.

On the threshold, Mira turned back to him. “I hope we see each other again.” Lucien couldn’t tell if her words were out of honesty or courtesy.

Finally taking that drink to taste the rum on his tongue, he wondered what he should do with his time here – nothing that would tie him to the court, but something that would keep him busy. Sparing a glance at the stars above, Lucien found the constellation of the Cauldron. He wanted to sneer at it – at fate – for everything that had been thrown upon him, but he merely blinked, letting the rum burn down his throat.

 

+++

 

Mira stared at a scratch on the bar counter, watching glasses being placed there half-full then taken away again, only to return empty. Occasionally there were decanters, too, tanned or fair hands pouring drink, sometimes spilling, sometimes steady. Movement and conversation surrounded her here in one of the poorer taverns, but Mira was apart from it.

Swivelling around, she let her eyes pass over the crowd – faeries standing in circles, drinking, High Fae at tables, dealing. It was rare to find grimy places such as this in Velaris, where the light was low and grey, and the people didn’t smile – but it was easier here, much easier than being in Rhys’ townhouse, surrounded by the Inner Circle. Without the aid of brighteye, or nevermore, or any kind of faedust running through her veins, she just couldn’t bear the weight of being reminded of what she couldn’t have – love, purpose, belonging.

For a few moments there, with Lucien with her at the railing, she almost tried to stay. He looked very much the image of Autumn: muted tones of reds and oranges colouring his hair, the air of fatigue hovering over him. Mira knew very little beyond the brief mention of his name in passing during some Inner Circle meetings – her role was concerned with the Illyrians. She’d hoped that talking to him would distract her from the souring of her mood, from the headache of withdrawal, but the laughter and warmth from inside was impossible to ignore. Back in Velaris until she was reassigned, Mira didn’t realise how much her own selfish feelings had festered, surfacing again after months away. She always felt on the edge of the Circle, and sharp one at that – it was starting to cut right into her heart.

In the corner, glaring from within a circle of suitors – Nesta. Mira smirked, probably looking a bit wolfish as she leaned back against the counter. At first, the woman had been as averse to Mira as she was to everyone else. But somehow, they had come to an understanding, achieved through late-night outings and talking through drink, not words. Mira didn’t think they had ever said anything coherent to each other, nothing that she could remember at least. She knew their reasons for grudges against certain members of the Inner Circle were different, but their coping methods seemed to intersect. It took one to know one, as the saying went, and Mira had seen herself in Nesta in brief flashes – the insecurity, the numbness, the desire to _feel_ something but not wanting to deal with the consequences.

Nesta lifted her brow before falling back into that lethal stoicism. A greeting that made Mira grin, for she knew what that meant. Tonight, they would be mirrors once again, preferring strangers for company. Alcohol didn’t brighten things up like those shimmering powders could, but it would do for tonight. Downing a burning shot, Mira sauntered over. There were several empty glasses on the table, and while Mira knew Nesta could hold her liquor well, her cheeks were flushed.

One of her companions, a thin High Fae male with hair the colour of platinum, was kissing her shoulder, hands running down her arms. Nesta tilted her head back and his kisses travelled upward, but still she looked at Mira, heedless of the intimate touches.

“We should avoid Rita’s,” Mira began, wondering where Nesta would take them this time. She was expert at finding the rowdier taverns and the seedier bars, where a brawl wouldn’t throw you out and inelegant clothes wouldn’t be a point of judgement. Gods – Mira’s hands had started to shake now, her mouth tingling with cravings.

“Who’s your friend?” asked another of Nesta’s suitors, eyes roving over Mira’s wings. She let them flare a little, smirking as the male’s eyes glittered – Mira would always be proud of her wings.

“She’s not my friend,” Nesta intoned, but Mira only grinned. Onwards, it was only the alcoholic weightlessness making her feel lighter with every new drink at every new tavern. Somewhere in between, the cool grip of Nesta’s strong fingers as they spun – maybe it was when dancing, or merely walking to the next bar. There was also the rough murmur of Nesta’s voice, but it was overwhelmed by the clinks of glass and the jaunty tunes of the minstrels.

It was a kind of release to give in to vice again, letting it grip her fast in its clutches; and besides, Nesta had a way of making an unbecoming seem like an ascension.


	2. i.ii: kitchen crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys checks in with Mira. Lucien and Mira encounter each other again in the House of Wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh thank you so much for the support so far!! i hope you enjoy x

Mira was roused in the afternoon of the next day, a gentle nudge waking her into a pounding headache, body shivering. Blearily looking around, she had somehow found her way back to the House of Wind, settled into one of the plush armchairs in the library. Her mouth tasted bitter and dry, and she ached all over.

“Hey,” Rhys whispered, crouching in front of her. He was clad in something black and fitted. Mira winced as she tried to shift, blood rushing in her ears – Rhys’ low voice probably meant he could tell what Mira had been up to last night, so eager to lose herself that she hadn’t even changed out of her leathers for it. “You barely said hello yesterday.”

“I was tired,” she rasped, glancing over to the unlit hearth. Ash was gathered around the logs, so fine that it reminded her of the powders she had run out of – gods, the only reason she had actually shown up to the gathering was in hopes of distraction, but unsurprisingly, it only made it worse. Her jaw clenched as another craving hit – they were escalating, forcing her to squeeze her eyes shut to let it pass. Faedust was potent like that, withdrawal starting with light symptoms and arresting the body part by part as time marched on, until one became either a listless or raging mess. Mira didn’t know which trait would overcome her if it came to that, but she only had to wait another day to restock – the trading caravans would be nearing the border soon.

Rhys’ violet eyes assessed her, mouth set in a thin line, but the concern was still there. She hated the way he still _cared,_ as if things hadn’t irrevocably changed between them. Mira had once fancied herself as something akin to his equal, but she was young and trivial then. She still felt like a fool now, childlike and inept with all her wishes burdening her shoulders while Rhys always seemed to stand straight, diadem on his brow, wanting for nothing.

He softened with a sigh, hand resting on her knee. “I’m—”

“Don’t touch me like that,” she meant to seethe, but it was a tremulous whisper instead. Remembering himself, he retracted his arm, but didn’t move away. Tears welled in her eyes, and Mira tried to swallow the heartbreak that threatened to resurface. Having Rhys close like this, talking to her with care – it was too much, too much like it had been decades before, when they were together, when they were lovers.

She still remembered that glorious, fateful final day of the Blood Rite, when her life had changed. Mira had clawed and fought her way to the top of that bloody mountain, bound wings aching with the rope that dug into her skin. Reaching that black monolith, transported within a breath to a clearing where the onlookers waited for the victor – she had grinned something wicked and feral as she loosened her long hair to a crowd of gasps and glares, protestations serving as her applause. But Rhys had been there, with Cassian and Azriel, wide-eyed for only a moment with the shock that arrested Illyrian history – a female competing in the Blood Rite, and _winning_ it. He had recovered, however, matching her grin as he held her gaze, mouthing, _I want her._

He’d been younger then, and much more arrogant, but still as loyal and caring as he was now. Rhys had taken her from those hostile mountains, whose people loathed her success as a warrior and overruled it, to Velaris and the Court of Dreams, giving her position and for a time, happiness. It had always been in secret, though, their lovemaking like trysts – it had made sense then, when politics were shaky and alignments dangerous. He was intoxicating, perhaps the first vice she had let herself fall into. Those bright eyes and easy smirk, his gentle yet protective touch, how he had pleasured her – close and intimate, thorough and unyielding. Having him touch her now, in any way, only served as a painful reminder that things had changed – their own dynamics, and that of Amarantha and Feyre. Mira didn’t think anyone knew that they’d been together for a time – and while she preferred it this way, since it minimised the eventual damage, she still felt like a dirty secret of his. But no matter how much she wanted to hate him, she couldn’t – he hadn’t discarded her, after all, and he had believed in her when no one else on that mountain did. Mira knew she still loved him, and would always love him; adapting to his mate had been – and still was – difficult.

“You’re tearing yourself apart, Mira,” he said, taking in her dishevelled hair, her paling skin. Mira’s leathers clung to her uncomfortably. Between him and her, they had never mentioned faedust explicitly, for the High Lord had a way of talking around things just as much as an addict did. This was the second secret they kept between themselves.

“Don’t you think I know that?” she snapped, but guilt made her drop her glare immediately, head resting in her hands. “I’m sorry. Being away is easier.”

“We missed you,” he offered, but Mira only nodded mutely, knowing that it would’ve been a very small ‘we’ indeed. After a pause, he changed tactics, perhaps deciding to give mercy. “Have you eaten anything yet?”

“No,” she said, and Rhys smirked as he saw the hunger growing on her face – it might be easier emotionally in the mountains, but its bland and stark cuisine sure tested her culinary patience.

Her vision blurred as she rose, but Rhys had a hand on her elbow as they traversed the many halls of the palatial House of Wind, on their way to the kitchen. He distracted her from the threat of nausea by updating her on recent events, including the arrival of Lucien.

“He’s here on behalf of Feyre,” he was saying, pushing a platter of bread and spreads in front of her as she leaned against the counter. “He also resides here in the House, by the way.”

Mira wasn’t particularly affected; the House was so big that they’d only seldom cross paths, if at all. “A diplomatic visit?”

Rhys shook his head. “Personal. He’s taking a step back from court intrigue, I think.” His gaze wandered to the hallway beyond, down to his hands – he had places to be. Mira knew not to take it personally – should be grateful that he took time out of his day to come check on her – but it still stung, knowing that he’d return to more important things. She gestured vaguely with her hand, and he nodded.

“Be gentle with yourself, Mira,” he said before he left, but there was a certain kind of defeat in his eyes, as if he knew Mira would be anything but.

 

+++

 

Lucien idly opened and closed cupboards in the kitchen, looking for dinner despite not being hungry. It was strange to live in an empty, enchanted palace, which manifested anything one needed. The Inner Circle occasionally dropped by, but didn’t stray far from their ornate meeting room or training deck, so Lucien had all its rooms and halls mostly to himself. He didn’t mind the lack of servants – he had learned how to clean up after himself during his search for Vassa – but it was sometimes eerie to sit within the silence, making a home out of the dread High Lord’s estates. He had to remind himself that this was Velaris, and not the Hewn City, where the reputation of the Night Court was forged.

Mira entered, unbraided hair curling over her shoulders. Alongside the subtle glow that could only come from a recent shower, it softened her severity.

“We meet again,” he mused, straightening.

“I guess the most likely place we’d cross paths here _is_ the kitchen,” she chuckled, reaching for the fruit bowl.

“You’re staying here, too?”  

She nodded. “Wouldn’t notice it in a place as big as this, though.” Her examination of an apple was brought short as she let out a soft grunt, hand coming up to her head. Lucien frowned as he turned back to the shelves, grabbing a cup.

“Fluids are better in the case of headaches,” he commented, remembering she had rubbed at her temples the same way last night.

She neared him, wings tucked behind her back as she watched his movements. “You’re a healer?”

He couldn’t help the derisive laugh that barked forth. “No,” he said, which wasn’t an outright lie – he might have had the power of healing and a little knowledge of medicinal herbs, but he was no healer. He’d worn the titles of youngest son, emissary, traitor, but beneath it all, Lucien always retained his skill with snare and knife. “I’m a hunter.”

Mira murmured her thanks as she took the offered water, Lucien watching as she brought it to her lips. In the light, he noticed a faded scar tracing over the corner of her upper lip. It was nothing jarring like the one running down the side of his face, but it was a facial scar nonetheless. He knew how they could disrupt things.

“I’ve never had the patience for hunting,” she considered, tracing the lip of her cup. “I’m more of an opportunist.”

Leaning against the counter, Lucien’s mouth quirked up. “What _do_ you have the patience for, then?”

“I’m an aerial lieutenant,” she said, making a vague gesture. Studying the back of her wings as she put the empty cup away, Lucien wondered what it was like to fight in mid-air. On the ground, there were already too many variables; to add that of flight and falling seemed impossibly strenuous. Though, it was probably second nature to Illyrians.

“You mentioned you’re in-between assignments?” he ventured, taking a seat at the island. Mira was the first Lucien could talk to without past judgements hanging over his head, and he hoped he could hold her interest. He'd forgotten the art of informality and nonchalance, of how it was to not have to keep up appearances. Conversation with anyone in Velaris so far had been minimal, to say the least. 

“Yes – it’s all still mostly reparations and what not,” she said, a shrug lifting her shoulders. “No scouting to be done.” Crossing her arms, Mira tensed for a moment. She was becoming increasingly fascinating to him – not unreadable, but rather vague. “And what brings you to this _fine_ city?” she asked, a wry tone colouring her words.

Weighing up his words, Lucien didn't think Mira knew much about his past or involvement in the war, for she didn't hold the same trace of scrutiny against him as the others did. To say _vacation_  would be wrong, for he didn’t have the liberty for it. _Recuperation_ would be a more truthful, yet ill choice, for it would lead to questions he didn’t want to answer. 

Mira’s look was knowing. “Nowhere else to go?” she smirked, but her eyes held no amusement - she wasn’t mocking him. “Me too,” she muttered.

Mira was right, of course. The Night Court hadn’t been his preference, but had been his only option. Her arrival, however, offered the hope of an ally, and he allowed the dread in his heart to lessen at his predicament, if only sightly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damn,,, mira's got History


	3. i.iii: disciplines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mira restocks. Lucien attends an Inner Circle meeting. They see each other afterwards, but Lucien suffers a difficult memory.

The alchemist’s movements were slow as he untied the red burlap from his caravan, setting Mira’s heart racing once the intricate, clever built-in stall was revealed. Lined with shelves and compartments and drawers, every available pigeonhole was filled with something – a herb, a potion, a seed, a tonic. There were dried flowers and crushed berries, refined elements and smoothed bones. It was unfortunate that _this_ was what made Mira giddy, but things were what they were.    

“Our wares, if one has coin.”

Mira flashed her handful of gold at the alchemist. A mortal who had crossed into the Fae lands long ago, he explained his youth through the magic of his elixirs. She didn’t doubt that perhaps he’d found some potion for long life – immortality wasn’t meant for the human mind, and the hint of insanity shone in his eyes and lilted his words with a strange cadence. Yet, he retained enough reason to keep his business legal, for he only sold the ingredients for faedust, and did so on the borders between the courts. Here in the thin strip of no man’s land, the alchemist held no guilt or responsibility; nor did Mira.

“Anything new?” she asked, eyeing the iridescent crushed glass that was a staple in most faedust powders – this was what usually caused the peculiar gleam on her nails.

“What does one wish for? To dream, to forget, to laugh, to learn?”

“I want… I want to be taken elsewhere.”

“Ah,” the alchemist breathed, eyes wide as shaky fingers collected two samples of pollen and a pinch of seeds. “To escape, to wander, to go astray. Evermist.”

Mira watched as he scrawled the recipe onto a parchment of paper. “Ingredients for nevermore and brighteye, too, if you will.”

           

Mira sat hunched over the mortar and pestle in her hands, the tools grating against each other as she crushed together the ingredients for evermist. Her newly acquired goods were scattered around her on the bed, too impatient to put them away first. She had simply grabbed whatever she needed, following the alchemist’s instructions with a kind of cool zealousness. Too eager to wait for a whole batch to synthesize, she was focused on making only one hit for now.

Faedust was a hard thing to brew for the uninitiated; incorrect ratios could lead to dilutions or overdoses, while contamination would result in unforeseen side effects. It wasn’t a prominent pastime in Prythian; its ingredients were too scarce for mass production, and its creators even more so. Mira had first come across it in the bowels of the Hewn City, given to her by a particularly questionable darkbringer. It had been curiosity then; but novelty had turned into pleasure, and pleasure into need. Now, it was a crutch.  

Slowly, the delicate yellow paste liquefied into a transparent substance. There was no excitement, only impatience as she allowed a droplet to fall into each eye. She squeezed them shut as it _burned_ , blindly setting the mortar onto the bedside table.

Stoic, she waited for the effect – Mira wasn’t too sure what it would be, probably something hallucinogenic. Letting her eyes roam around the room, Mira studied the dark wood of the walls, the rich tapestries hanging against them. The vanity was ornate with its gold lining, and the trunk at the foot of the bed was etched with intricate carvings of constellations. Mira’s weapons lay discarded against the walls, their obsidian blades matching the dark, rich tones of the room. Her other pair of leathers hung over a chair, and the ragged sack tucked underneath it contained her spare boots and underthings.

The scattered objects were the extent of her possessions; she had never been able to shake the destitute, frugal nature of Illyrian mountain living. Indulging felt wrong, and besides, Mira liked armour and weapons better than dresses and jewels. After breaking with Rhys, even more so.

Mira’s thoughts ran away with her, taking on shape and sound and smell – right in front of her, she could _sense_ her fantasies, her memories, bending them to her will. She imagined herself back when she could smirk as easily as Rhys, not tainted by cynicism or dry humour, and let her imagination take control – Mira: commander of armies, rider of dragons, Illyrian revolutionary. She could hear the cheers, feel the clash of metal blades, smell the blood on the dragon’s breath. Vivid, intense, her whimsical wishes were _real,_ unfolding around her. A breathy, lopsided smile stretched across her face, basking in the feeling of what she imagined to be popularity, purpose, importance. It was heady, it was majestic, and Mira didn’t even notice as the morning turned into afternoon, as life marched on around her in the form of visitors coming and going from the House elsewhere, of leaders leading and workers working. She was shut away from it all, behind the veil of her exuberant, wonderful, impossible daydreams.

 

+++

 

“I’m not certain of my place here,” Lucien murmured to Feyre as they and the rest of the Inner Circle gathered in the meeting room.

“You’re more in tune with the Mortal Lands than I am now,” she said, her attempt at an encouraging smile coming across rather rueful. “If you think you can add useful insight on behalf of their situation, please do.”

“Alright,” he nodded, knowing that he couldn’t truly refuse. However, Lucien realised that there must be an inkling of trust directed at him if he was being included in a meeting such as this, where military reports were laid bare and spies’ intelligence was shared. Thinking of Vassa and Jurian, he wondered to what extent he’d have to play the role of ambassador again.

Cassian had barely begun presenting something about the Illyrians when he stopped short, searching for something. “Where’s Mira?”

Lucien knew he once held the reputation of the flirtatious courtier and spy, fleeting in his loyalty as he hopped from court to court. It had been a mask to uphold for survival, and he took no pride in knowing that some circles in Prythian thought him a drunk people-pleaser. He had, however, found certain joys in it, like the thrill of gossip. He could read a room of tensions, follow the webs that intertwined people; the skill had given him advantage many times. Right now, he could sense a shift in dynamics, a point of pressure.

“She’s probably still tired,” Rhys offered, taking a closer look at one of Cassian’s documents.

“From what?” scoffed Mor, her tones of red brighter than any autumn hue. “She’s off duty.”

“I think I saw her out with Nesta the other night,” Feyre murmured, frowning.

“It’s been two days since.”

“Enough,” spoke Rhys, turning to Cassian. “Don’t you have everything you need?”

He muttered something under his breath. “She hasn’t given me her reports yet,” he sighed, which made Rhys furrow his brow. “Her divisions are doing paramount work, but I don’t have the details for you.”

Mira sauntered in, looking a bit sallow, but the severity of her braids gave her immediacy. “About time,” Mor muttered, so low that Lucien almost didn’t catch it. Her hostility was unusual – Lucien hadn’t really seen aggression from her until now, only amiability.  

“Sorry,” Mira said, voice scratchy. She turned to leave again, but Cassian caught her arm, gently pulling her back to the table.

“Where are you going? You’re needed here.”

“Why?” she rasped, her reaction furrowing more than just Cassian’s brows. “I’m just another lieutenant – whatever I have to say are in your reports already. _You_ are the general.”

The Illyrian male truly looked confused. “You’re entitled to be here, Mira.” There was silent doubt in her eyes, but she seemed to acquiesce. Cassian turned back to the room, going over the reparations that were slowly coming to a close. It sounded like the return of infantry training was on the horizon, but the updates were distant to Lucien’s ears. Mira was holding his gaze, having spotted him when her eyes lazily crossed the room. In a peculiarly stealthy way for someone boasting wings, she weaved her way to him, coming to stand at his side.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered, not unkindly.

“I might be able to offer insight from the Mortal Lands, if need be,” he murmured in reply.

She seemed to assess him, Lucien’s fingers clasped tightly behind his back. “Are you aligned with them?”

A loaded question, even in peacetime. “I’m familiar with their interests.”

Lucien thought she was going to say something, but Mira’s jaw clenched when Azriel’s low, monotonous voice started to deliver a brief overview of insights across Prythian. Looking at him, Lucien regarded his shadows carefully, twisting over the male’s arms. When Lucien turned back, Mira was gone.

If anyone noticed, it went unsaid.

 

Lucien found her again an hour after the meeting, staring at the unlit hearth in the library. It was unsettling to see her figure in the dark – she was swathed in shadow, her wings looking particularly ominous with those pointed talons, curving like scythes. He’d only known her briefly, but Lucien had noted the air of sardonicism about her. It was in the lilt of her words, the pull of her mouth. She seemed so at odds with the others; a cynic in Rhysand’s Court of Dreams.

He touched the dim faelight hovering above, letting his magic set it aglow. Mira didn’t even shift. Sitting in the adjacent armchair, Lucien tried to see what was holding her interest so – but then he noted familiar signs. The blank look in her eyes, the listlessness – it reminded him of Tamlin, sitting alone in that ruined court of his, despairing over things that couldn’t be undone.

He kept his voice low, for he didn’t think she had noticed his arrival. “Did the water help?”

Lethargic movements. A slow blink.

“Last night,” he clarified, wondering if it was another headache that was plaguing her.

“Oh. Yes, thank you.” Her eyes lifted to the tomes around them, and Lucien allowed himself to admire the shelves, too. “Do you read much?”

“Not as much as I’d like to,” he admitted. “But perhaps now I’ll have the time for it.”

They settled into silence. With both of them on a kind of break, he wondered how much they were going to see of each other. The House of Wind was big, and it still seemed she had some responsibilities to see to. He himself had recently acquired some new ones.

“Do you possess any magic?” she asked, turning to him.

“Are you requesting a party trick?” he teased, the sudden return of his wit feeling like some vestige of his former self.

A huff of laughter escaped her, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “If you’re willing.”

Holding out his hand in the space between them, he clenched a fist, jaw feathering in concentration. With a flick of his wrist, his fingers splayed open as a ball of light rested on his palm. “Light isn’t my main discipline,” he murmured, looking up to catch her reaction. “I’ve only recently started to exercise it.”

Mira let out a faint gasp, eyes lighting up as she leaned forward. The ball of light shifted into something more akin to a ribbon as it ran over his palm, weaving its way over his knuckles and between his fingers. It was only something small, but until recently, Lucien didn’t even know he had inherited this ability from the lord of Day himself.

He was too focused on upholding the sliver of light to notice Mira reaching out, fingers brushing against his – smaller and thinner and paler than his own. Lucien flinched away, unwanted memories ghosting across his mind, unwelcome sensations crawling across his skin. Abruptly he got to his feet, wrenching away with something between a hiss and a gasp.

Mira was stammering, pressing her hands against her sternum. “I— I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

But he was striding out of the library, heart pounding and blood rushing. He pulled at his collar, throat tight as a flush of heat crept up his neck. These corridors seemed a maze, and he had to keep a hand running along the wall to stay upright. Gods – he was back in Spring again, where a pair of dainty hands reached for him all the time, tugging and groping and _tying him up—_

Lucien wanted to _run,_ but forced himself to keep his strides even. Soon enough he was shutting his door behind him, breaths fast and heavy as he remembered Ianthe’s voice in his ear, sickeningly moist with her breath against his neck. Revulsion washed over him, nausea building up the column of his throat. Lowering himself to the edge of the bed, his head fell into his hands. No matter how many miles or years Lucien would try to place between him and his burdens, he just couldn’t move beyond them.

He didn't want to keep reliving these things anymore. He only wanted to just  _live._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not to hype it up or anything but i think next chapter's going to be so good omg i can't WAIT


	4. i.iv: hearth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucien finds something to keep him busy during his stay in Velaris. He invites Mira to join him for a simple dinner.

Lucien leaned against the tree bark, sitting on a bough as he watched the clearing below. Dressed in forest greens, he blended in nicely with the hues of the Night Court’s timberlands, boots a deep brown. A quiver rested on his back, a bow in his lap. The woods here seemed a little colder; it felt eerily populated even though he had scarcely seen any life.

Hunting had been with him all his life. When he was young and still a son of Autumn, he learned its discipline and elegance from the High Lord’s guards. Then, he’d hunted with Tamlin, when they could spare the time for themselves. There, alone in the woods, they could be free of whatever pretences they had to put on; they could laugh and relax and be _friends._ Briefly, it had been done with Feyre, as they traversed through Spring and Autumn – but it had been crude with no adequate hunting equipment. Afterwards, he’d since been hunting alone, just his own breath and pulse and thoughts to keep him company.

Lucien sighed, his breath misting in front of him. He missed Tamlin, and he missed Spring. He knew he shouldn’t – all too familiar with the toll of the grievances that had been wrought – but the male had given him a home when he needed it, stood with him against his brothers in solidarity. Tamlin had been his only true friend through the hell that Lucien endured, even if he now realised that the male had partly contributed to it. Yet, Lucien wasn’t sure what a friend was supposed to _be_ anymore. Tamlin had hurt him, Feyre had taken advantage of him, and his own brothers had never been amicable. However, there was Jurian and Vassa, who he missed too, but he had _loved_ Tamlin once. Wincing, Lucien thought that there simply must be something wrong with him – how could he still stand to look Tamlin in the eyes, how could he still want his company in spite of all the suffering that had occurred at his hands? Perhaps it was the gnawing grief in his golden eyes when Lucien visited him every Winter Solstice; the unchanged detritus of the manor; the wilting flowers across his court. Lucien couldn’t stay with him, but he couldn’t wholly leave him behind either.

A rustle in the underbrush had Lucien’s head tilting, cocking an arrow with practiced movements. Lucien saw the antlers first; great big branches sprouting from the stag’s head. Exhaling nice and slow, Lucien lifted his elbow as he pulled the bowstring taut, looking straight down the spine of the arrow at the animal’s hide. Another deep breath, holding aim as the stag stepped carefully into the clearing, dainty and strong all at once. Relaxing his fingers, Lucien let the arrow fly.  

           

Lucien realised too late what a sight he must seem, winnowing right into the busy market square, laden with his game. People were staring at the stag lying at his feet, a handful of rabbits and pheasants in his arms. Salome herself started at his sudden appearance, dropping the rag she’d been cleaning with. Her eyes grew wide as she regarded his load, a grin stretching across her aged face.

“Oh, Mother’s sweet tits!” she shouted, startling everyone in the immediate vicinity. Some murmurs and frowns passed by, some stifled laughs. Lucien himself merely stood there, blinking. He had never met a High Fae female so… bawdy. “Oh, come now, boy, let me _see._ ”

Moving behind the counter, Lucien was met with the wet and salty smell of cured meats. They hung around the tent from metal hooks, and as he unburdened himself from his game, Lucien had to be careful not to knock against them. He couldn’t even straighten fully anyway, Salome’s stall built to accommodate her height only.

“I haven’t had venison for sale in _years,_ ” she grunted, poring over the fallen stag. She was pushing and prodding, stroking its smooth hide.  Leaning close, she inhaled a deep breath of it, blood and dirt and all, making Lucien cringe a little. Turning her brown eyes on him, Salome regarded him as critically as she did when she had hired him a few days ago. “I didn’t expect _this_ much from you. Just look at those scrawny arms.”

No matter what she said, Salome’s voice carried an air of authority, so he inspected his arms anyway. Perhaps he wasn’t as broad-shouldered as the Illyrians, but he didn’t think he was _too_ scrawny. However, Salome herself was a stout woman, and from how she spoke, he assumed her husband had been burly as well.

“They get things done,” he offered, hoping that his voice didn’t sound _too_ sulky.

“You bet the gods’ piss they do!” she exclaimed, glee lighting up her face. Lucien’s own mouth quirked up, shaking his head slightly at her oath. He had gone to every butcher in Velaris’ lively markets, offering his services as a hunter. All had turned him down with either a laugh or a sneer, everyone except Salome. She had critiqued him, certainly, was suspicious of his lean build and metal eye, but she had needed a hunter after her husband died in the war. _I’m getting old, boy,_ she had told him, _I can’t chase things anymore._ “Ah, we’ll be right for days.”

“Do you need help with gutting?” he asked, eyeing everything he’d brought in. Hopefully the meats won’t spoil before they’re sold – he didn’t think Salome was the most popular butcher in the markets, even if her voice carried ten times further than all the others’ combined. When she set a hand on her hip, Lucien winced again – it was the wrong question to ask.

“What do _you_ think?” she grouched, any friendliness replaced with reproval. Muttering something about green and presumptuous youths, she pulled a gleaming butcher’s knife from beneath the counter. A heavy _chop,_ blood splattering across her red apron. “You have promise, Lucien. Bring me a bag like this again, and I might even let you hold Bernhardt here.”

“A mighty privilege it would be,” he said, grin pulling at his mouth. Salome was amusing, even if she was intimidating. With a bob of blond hair framing her wrinkled face and clad in a fur-collared coat, she seemed soft and comforting at first glance, but she was anything but. A second, hefty _thud_ of the knife told him his business here was done for today.

           

+++

 

Mira knew the whole anatomy of a comedown; the fatigue, the depression, the irritability. It was always the strongest after the initial high; perhaps this was why she had reached out for Lucien’s light, wanting to feel a sense of wonder again amidst the numbness. He had pulled away so fiercely that she was briefly shocked into sobriety, fearing she had done something inappropriate. But all it had been was a simple brush of their fingers, she was sure.

This all came rushing back when she saw him turning the corner of the hallway, stepping towards her. Mira hadn’t seen him for a week, but then again, she hadn’t sought him out. Even though she’d still been caught in the post-hit haze then, the sound of his hiss as he bolted from her was unforgettable. Reflexively, she clasped her hands behind her back.

“Mira,” he greeted, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. He wasn’t looking her in the eye, but this made it easier. He was tall, but his lean limbs made him look even more so. Dressed in forest colours, his red hair was nicely complemented, some of it braided delicately out of his face. “While I admire the House’s bottomless supply of cheese and bread,” he started, making Mira chuckle, “I caught some pheasant today. I was going to roast it. You’re welcome to join me, if you like?”

“Are you sure?” Mira ventured, even though her mouth was watering for something so raw and simple as roasted game.

He raised his eyes to her, the golden one whirring. Mira always had to remind herself not to stare; it wasn’t unsettling, but it was something she had to grow accustomed to. Then there was that horrible scar curving from brow to chin; no doubt it had hardened him, but Mira still thought he retained an air of elegance despite it.

“I feel I must apologise for… fleeing like that,” he murmured, rueful. His expression clouded, searching for words to say, for an explanation that he didn’t seem ready to give.

“We’ll roast it in the traditional Illyrian way: over a campfire.”

“Oh?”

“The hearth,” she supplied, delighting in the tired smile that accompanied his nod.

She walked with him as he turned to go fetch the game, heading to the kitchen. There rested the skinned and gutted birds, gleaming pink. There were some feathers scattered across the counter, an abandoned knife still bloody.

“The butcher I work for allowed me to keep some of today’s hunt,” he explained, gathering the meat in his hands.

“You’re working in Velaris?” she asked, grabbing some skewers from a cupboard.

“It’s something to keep me busy,” he admitted as they walked to the library.

Mira knew well how good a distraction could be in times of need. “I’m glad it’s something that you like, at least.”

“Do you like what you do?”

A hollow chuckle escaped her. “I’m not doing anything these days,” she drawled, kneeling in front of the fireplace. Lucien’s brows furrowed, eyes flicking between her and the chairs just beyond. Mira was content here on the ground, though, the rug soft enough beneath her. He seemed to acquiesce, sitting down next to her and taking the skewers from her while she readied a fire. “Illyrians are fighters, not community workers. I’ve become a damned paper pusher during these reparations.”

“Ah, missives and people – my speciality,” he smirked, arranging the skewered pheasants over the fire. At the question in her expression, he said, “I was an emissary for a long time. Letters and negotiations and so forth.”

“For Spring?” she ventured, remembering that Feyre had come from the Spring court to Under the Mountain. He nodded, but there was something rigid about it. “Not for Autumn, then?”

“No, I… I moved. I’m sure you’ve heard my family isn’t exactly the kindest.”

“No one has a kind family,” she muttered, but Lucien’s scar humbled her. “But some are worse than others,” she amended, gentling her tone. “Did they do that?”

He was rueful again. “No,” he said, gaze shifting to the fire. “This was someone else.”

 

Lucien turned the makeshift spit, swallowing the bitter taste of hatred. Amarantha might have disfigured him for it, but he’d never regret the words he had lashed at her. _Go back to the shit-hole you crawled out of!_ It might have been the last time he truly spoke his mind without fear, for after it, he had learned that standing up for oneself always came with consequences.

“It sounds like you’ve been everywhere.” As usual, Mira was clad in leathers and her hair was pulled into battle braids, even though there was nothing to fight. No physical enemy, at least.  

“Not _everywhere,”_ he corrected, but the hint of reverence in her voice had this fall on deaf ears.

“I don’t know much about anything beyond the Night Court,” she admitted. “What’s it like out there?”

Lucien didn’t find it hard to think of her as quite tied to the Illyrian mountains; it was where she worked, where she hailed from. Her roots were clear even in the way she spoke, something rough underlying her tone, accentuating a lilting accent. Welcoming the lighter subject, he wanted to indulge her curiosity. “Well,” he began, gathering his thoughts while handing her a golden-brown pheasant, dripping with grease. While eager, he noted her caution when she reached for it, staying clear of his own fingers. “For one thing, the leaves don’t turn in Autumn – they grow that way.”

He almost forgot to eat his own meat as he told her all kinds of things – the peculiar traits of the different courts, the ever-blooming flower fields of Spring; how things were duller in the Mortal Lands, but acquired a certain tenacity in the face of their mortality; the frozen lakes of Winter, through which one could see all kinds of swimming leviathans; he even shared a secret about the production behind Autumn’s famous spiced wine, which was copiously consumed during harvest festivals.

She grinned behind her food, especially when he told her of those embarrassing moments during his lone search for Vassa where he had to improvise often. “Someone once asked me to prove I was human,” he was saying, chuckling at the ridiculous memory when he’d run into some undesirables south of the broken wall.

"What did you _say?_ ” she gasped, eagerly leaning toward him. Grease tracked down her fingers, but she didn’t seem to care.

“Something impatient and a bit short-sighted, I’d wager,” he quipped, earning an amused hum from Mira. It was the first time he’d seen true mirth from her, where her smiles were characterised by laughter and not wryness. He liked the sound of it now, where it was unadulterated by painful things.

“Everything they say is so arrogant,” she laughed, but it had taken on a hard edge. “It’s hilarious when their lives are so fleeting.”

“I think they value life more than we do, though,” he confessed. They treasured it so much that they had made it a right; though of course, everything became important when one was born into a transient life.

A final chuckle falling from her lips, Mira threw the pheasant bones into the fire before wiping her hands on her leathers. Her smile – her true smile – was still sharp and a bit wicked, but it suited her.

“I’ve never really told anyone about my travels,” he mused, brows furrowing at the realisation.

Mira calmed, looking over. Even with her wings folded behind her, he could see their traceries of veins. Lucien’s gaze shifted to her folded hands. Over time, he had mastered what it was to get back on the proverbial horse – he’d learned to compartmentalise, to return to people and places despite whatever they might have done to him. It had been so with Amarantha, with Tamlin, with Ianthe and Feyre. He knew, however, that it was different this time. Mira hadn’t done anything to him; it was rather just the feeling of being touched unexpectedly that brought those memories hurtling through his mind again. He knew his triggers, but they could flare at odd times.

Wiping his own hands on a rag that had been his pocket, he steeled himself. He remembered the excitement in her gasp last time, the wonder shining in her eyes at something that he thought was quite simple and mediocre in the scheme of things, but perhaps light magic was a novelty here in the Night Court. Calling upon his power, he brought forth that sliver of light again, extending his arm to Mira. “Shall we try again?”

It was the first time she displayed hesitancy, but she reached for him anyway; tentative, cautious. Lucien kept reminding himself that Mira was someone else, someone new. Her fingers passed through the conjured white light, and when he willed them to weave between her fingers, she laughed again. Lucien thought she was trying to hold the light itself, but in her efforts, her fingers curled over his palm.

Lucien realised he had it all twisted before - her skin was not soft, but calloused, and he could feel some leftover grease, but he didn’t mind too much. This – _touch ­–_ was not so frightening, if he just focused on the differences.

Her hand shifted, delicately holding onto his wrist to inspect his open palm. The light was fading gently as Lucien’s concentration wavered. She turned his hand over, reaching for his other, too.

“Why did you choose to become an emissary? You have a hunter’s hands, and no doubt a hunter’s heart.” Letting go, she leaned back, as if realising how close they’d gotten. “I know what clean kills look like. You minimise the suffering.”

Lucien’s heart raced, but for the first time in a while, it was for a reason other than fear or anxiety. He hadn’t expected this sentimentality from someone who found comfort in fighting, whose whole life revolved around it. She hadn’t said as much, but he guessed Mira belonged to that class of people who had a strange relationship with battle.

“It was the only option at the time,” he murmured, but in retrospect, he wasn’t so sure if this was true.

“I’d like to hear more of your stories, if you’re ever willing,” she said, low against the crackle of the hearth.

“I’m sure you have stories, too. Illyrians are but myth and legend outside Night.”

Her mouth quirked up in something proud, her wings rustling slightly. He was sure it was the gentler equivalent of a male puffing out his chest in pride. A frown crossed her features again, though. “I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped. I haven’t made a new friend in a while.”  

He shook his head, giving her what he hoped to be a reassuring smile, even if it didn't quite reach his eyes. “That night – it wasn’t you.”


	5. i.v: forest gossip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mira accompanies Lucien to the forest, where he shows her the finer things of hunting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aka a lesson in setting snares lmao. hopefully it doesn't read too confusing,,

“The trick lies in the timing,” Lucien was saying, picking up two sturdy sticks. Trees loomed over them as they crouched amidst the underbrush, leaves crunching under their feet. “Animals aren’t blind – they can see the snares.” Taking out a knife, he started to carve a hook into each branch, his movements practiced and methodical. “It’s best to lay them at night, when the moon is waning. Less light, that way.”

Mira nodded, turning back to her task. Lucien had been kind enough to take her along to the forests today, showing her where he had been spending much of his time. She’d been wondering how he preferred to hunt, and it seemed like arrows and snares were his specialty. A distant hunter, then, taking life in a quiet, unobtrusive way.  

“How’s this?” she asked, showing him the wire she had twisted into a small noose. It was a delicate business, setting these traps; it required knots and precision and subtlety. Lucien glanced at her work, mouth quirking.

“Good. Now we find a sapling.”

Rising, she followed after him. This forest wasn’t lush or vibrant; it did not teem with life, but rather hid it. While a dark and introspective place, Mira didn’t think it gloomy. Overhead, the canopies touched, and roots curled over each other in ancient, earthly embraces. There was cohesion here, a sense of sharing – nothing like the sparse stands of trees dotting the Illyrian mountains, the tall redwoods always blanketed with snow. Those primeval things stood apart, wanting no charity.

Ahead, Mira could see that Lucien had become familiar with these hunter’s woods. Gone was his guarded posture, replaced with a surefooted step. His hands lingered on the barks of trees as they passed, movements instinctual as he avoided hitting overhanging branches with the bow slung over his back. The way he moved – cautious yet deliberate – reminded her of the whispers of the dryads and nymphs, beings carved out of the woods _for_ the woods. Dressed as he was in his greens and browns, Mira wouldn’t be surprised if he were to vanish into the forest before her very eyes.

She knelt next to Lucien when he found a suitable sapling. “This is the base,” he explained as he drove one of his sticks into the ground. His braided hair fell over his shoulder with the action, the dappled sunlight turning flyaway strands golden. “If you could tie the noose to that,” he said, giving her the remaining stick. Untying the cord of rope at his belt, Lucien knotted it to the sapling, bending its branch in his hold. Once she attached the noose, Lucien tied the stick to the other end of the rope. He inspected her knot with a nod. “It should hold,” he said, carefully interlocking the two sticks with their carved mouths. “This is our hook. Once the game disturbs the noose, it will unlock from the base and pull the animal into the air.”

With it all set, she let the silence last for only a heartbeat. “What now?”

“Now we wait,” Lucien chuckled, his smile just as warm as it had been that night, lit by the glowing hearth. Since then, they often shared a light supper with each other, for it was only in the late afternoon they could cross paths – Lucien tended to leave before dawn, and Mira started her nights early.

They settled behind some shrubbery after Lucien found some leafy greens, having placed it as bait within the noose. Looking over at him, she thought Lucien quite relaxed, elbow resting on his knee. _It wasn’t you,_ he had said, had even confirmed it by letting her touch him again. Yet still Mira remained cautious, keeping her distance and avoiding accidental brushes – she didn’t want to push him.

Lucien threw her a smirk. “So now that you know the secrets of the trade, will you be stealing all my game?”

Mira scoffed. She could admire the ingenuity of hunting like this, but it was foreign knowledge. In Velaris, there was no need, and up in the camps, there was always a dedicated hunter. Mira hadn’t even bothered with it during the Blood Rite, knowing it would take too much time. Instead, she foraged for herbs and berries on her way up that gruelling mountain; once, she had even taken the risk of stealing another competitor’s quarry. Absently thumbing at the scar on her lip, Mira shouldered off her knapsack, stifling a sigh.

“I’d wither away while waiting for it all to show up.”  

“It’s a lot like court, you know.” Mira was dubious, but Lucien held her gaze. “You’re there to snare information. You socialise to pass the time, but really, you’re just manoeuvring to set your next trap.” Indeed, she had sensed some hints of courtier behaviour – the witty remarks, the careful questions. There was no grovelling, however; no sycophantic search for praise in return for false flattery that the aristocrats of the Hewn City often displayed.

“Secrets?” she ventured.

“Oh, nothing _so_ noble. I was there for gossip.”

Mira snorted, nose scrunching. Lucien’s brows rose as a grin pulled at his mouth, entreating her with open palms. “What? It’s much more entertaining than dry schemes.” She tried to calm herself, but his look of playful indignation sent her laughing again. He shook his head, unable to keep the chuckle out of his voice. “Stop mocking me! You’ll scare away the game.”

“Alright,” she acquiesced, enjoying the spark in his amber eye. “Tell me the latest rumour, then.”

His smile tightened as he looked away. “All this was before the war; things have changed since then.”

Mira frowned, her own mirth fading. She didn’t like how their fun seemed to stop and start, always hitching. Turning back to her, Lucien’s face was sober. “What do you make of all this, now that the Wall has fallen?”

“We seek to build a meaningful alliance with the Mortal Lands,” she intoned, recalling things mentioned in Inner Circle meetings. “The ignorance it fostered did not equate to protection.”

Lucien sighed. “No. What do _you_ think?”

Mira swallowed, suddenly aware of her lack of worldly knowledge. She had thought about it, of course; _had_ to, since it had sparked so many wars. “We’re the furthest from it,” she started, voice strange and uncertain even to her own ears, “yet we care the most about it. We might have stopped Hybern from swarming the humans, but now they’re exposed to the Fae.” She looked down at her hands, wringing them. To voice her disagreements out loud, and to a _visitor_ no less… Guilt gnawed, deep in her gut. Mira remembered he’d been quite reticent with his dealings with the Mortal Lands, giving her a non-answer. From the way he had talked, she also knew him to be a sympathiser.

He was more than a mere acquaintance by now, though. His gaze was earnest, patiently waiting for her to continue; but what did her thoughts on it matter?

“They will come,” she murmured, knowing curiosity to be a vice as much as it was a virtue. “We will meet. They won’t gain favour as quick as the others did.”

It was a veiled criticism, and she wasn’t sure whether Lucien caught it. He nodded, however, and Mira’s tension lessened. “Yes, it would be rather unwise to grant complete trust so soon, no matter how we may have helped each other during the war. I don’t think we’re in danger of doing that just yet, however.”  

Mira hummed, looking away. There was a conflict of interest right at the centre of the Inner Circle concerning the topic, but no one ever mentioned it.

Taking a breath, she willed such thoughts away. Mira knew that these grievances would return, however – they _always_ did. It was insidious, the way they could change her moods, make her heart race and fists clench.

“Surely you remember at least _one_ scandal,” she tried, forcing mirth back into her voice.

Lucien huffed a chuckle, something soft and almost boyish. “Well,” he mused, mischief creeping onto his face as he leaned forward, all conspiratorial. There it was: the cunning of the autumn fox. “ _I_ heard—”

“Yes?” she hummed, raising a brow.

“—From a _mutual_ friend of the feuding families—”

Mira nodded sagely. “A reliable source.”

“—Something over taxation, I think, or was it marriage?—”

“Isn’t it always?” Mira sighed, laying back and propping herself up on an elbow. His lines were more prominent from this angle; straight nose, defined jaw. Lucien’s features were fine and sleek, but too elegant to be cutting.

“—Regardless, the younger lord extended an offer of reconciliation. It was affecting their trade, you see. It was some apology, half-hearted no doubt. But _Mira,”_ he gasped, eyes widening, _“_ it was written in _parchment!_ ”

“ _No,_ ” she breathed, despite not catching the slight at all; her face barely changed expression.

“Horrendous quality,” he huffed, making Mira laugh at the uptight air he put on. “If you want to impress someone, you do it with vellum. Needless to say, the receiver was _not_ merciful. The feud probably continues to this day.”

“How petty,” she scoffed. “Is that the best you can do?”

Lucien raised a brow. “Not ridiculous enough for you?”

A rustle from beyond. Their heads whipped towards the snare, Mira rising with Lucien following behind. He lunged toward the trap, reaching for the rabbit that nimbly hopped from reach, scuttling away into the underbrush as fast as it had appeared.

She looked down at the snare, taking in its sorry state – the hook dangled in the air, the noose empty. Lucien crouched at the base, hand brushing over empty ground where the bait had been. He looked up at her, so needlessly morose that Mira’s lips quirked despite herself.

“This actually happens more often than I’d admit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh it's so strange to go from writing the reserved azriel to the charismatic lucien! i hope i do his wit justice lmao ;_;
> 
> ps. that scene in the books where he catches a fish with his bare hands? hottest thing sjm ever wrote 110%


	6. i.vi: temper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During an Inner Circle meeting, Mira becomes agitated. Afterwards, Lucien finds her.

Mira hadn’t allowed herself to be late to anything with the Inner Circle again. Her occupation was the only way to show them that she was worthy of title and power, and being a warrior was the only thing she was good at. It was also a source for distraction, to keep away from certain people and places and powders as best she could.

Striding into Azriel’s office, Mira hadn’t expected to see Cassian there as well, but she welcomed it anyway. Even though she no longer felt the need to avoid Azriel’s eyes, his presence could still sometimes elicit mixed feelings – utter respect, but also such disappointment. Not in him, however, but in fate, in life, for playing a cruel joke on her. Her superior in their professional lives, Mira often worked with Azriel as one of his Illyrian fences for information alongside her role as one of Cassian’s lieutenants. He was a ruthless taskmaster, his work ethic insurmountable – but this was what kept her from indulging in Faedust when on duty. Yet, somewhere between his roles as colleague and friend, Mira had realised something that had sent away her last vestige of hope.

It was equivalent to a second rejection, when she had felt the presence of the mating bond. Still reeling from the breaking with Rhys, it had only sent her spiralling further into whatever discreet mess she was today. All the glory and praise she’d been raised on were utter propaganda – Mira felt no attraction, only cheated. She would never be able to love him like _that;_ he was her untouchable colleague, and had eyes for someone else.

Mira wasn’t sure how dismissals of the bond were actuated, but she never experienced any pull after the first realisation, any lure or want or curiosity. Of course, she couldn’t hold it against him – he was still her friend – but she could certainly hold it against Fate itself. The one promise Mira was supposed to be guaranteed in life had fallen through. 

“I’m sure you’re glad you’re done with reparations,” Cassian greeted, throwing her a conspiratorial smirk.

“Finally,” she grumbled. “I came here with a concern, though.” 

“Relating to what?” asked Azriel, a quill still in his hand. She still remembered his approval of the skills of stealth and deception she’d come to Velaris with, for it was the only way of fooling multitudes into thinking her a boy to gain access to training and the Rite. He had since honed them more, up to the point that Mira still had most fooled into thinking her a clean, sober individual.

“I’ve always had a grip on my soldiers,” she started, forcing herself not to wring her hands. “But once we remobilise, I fear that it will… slip.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The rebellious sentiment is escalating. I can handle isolated outbursts, but what will I do if it continues to spread? I’m only one person.”

Frowning, Cassian said, “The sentiments are the same across the other legions. It’s true that the reparations have added to it, but they’re always grieved about something.”

“You _know_ it’s different for me,” Mira snapped. She had never been popular with the soldiers – they didn’t want to follow a female commander, not until the Court’s leaders forced them to do so. It had taken time, but Mira had found a steady foothold, reviving the dismissed glory of the Blood Rite. It was peacetime now, though, and there was something brewing within the Illyrians. Whatever it was, it was affecting her, too; doubts and insecurities becoming more prominent. Mira was searching to placate her soldiers instead of _commanding_ them.

Cassian inclined his head in apology, leaning against the wall. “I’ve seen you with your troops, Mira. You are capable of holding your own – you’ve done so for decades, now.” She tried to find reassurance in that, but there was an anger festering in the mountains like never before, feelings of being used like tools. Realising she was searching for something to say, he pushed off the wall to wrap an arm around her shoulders.

“We could make some reassignments?” suggested Azriel, looking up from his seat at the desk.

Mira shook her head, knowing it won’t change a thing. “Recently other lieutenants have had to tighten their reigns too, I suppose.”

“Things fester in idleness,” Azriel agreed.

“Unrest in the camps?” came Feyre’s voice, and they all glanced to see her entering with Mor.

“No more than what our favourite lieutenant can handle,” quipped Cassian, and despite herself, Mira chuckled. It was moments like this when she found herself grateful to actually _have_ friends, friends who were loyal and caring and could make her laugh. This was why she kept returning, despite the hurt that kept growing.

“If we need to solidify your command,” Mor started, and Mira’s mood soured, “send me or Feyre – they know who we are. We can remind them who’s in charge, while not bringing another male into the equation.”

Stepping out of Cassian’s hold, she muttered, “That will only _undermine_ my command.”

“A firm hand from the Circle might be beneficial, since you seem to be slipping.”

Mira sneered while the rest grew ever quieter, familiar with the mutual dislike. “Yes, let’s only pull rank when I’m here.”

“Mira,” Cassian tried, “I don’t think she meant—”

“That’s exactly what I meant.”

“I didn’t come here for this,” Mira gritted, pushing her way past and out. Her thoughts roiled above their mumbling, hot and fast. To be _usurped_ like that – not only would she lose all influence with the soldiers, but she’d bend the knee to Mor. Her duties didn’t even _concern_ the goddamn mountains, too busy with the cities, yet she’d take the time to put Mira into place.

Reaching her room, Mira wrenched open the drawers of her armoire. It screeched as she nearly tore it off, all her vials and sachets rattling against the wood. She grabbed the first powder that winked at her, not caring whether it was a suppressant or enhancer. Its cloying sweetness filled her mouth as she rubbed it into her gums with rigid, jerky movements.

Her heart thundered in her chest, shoulders tense. It wasn’t just Mor; the Inner Circle wouldn’t even notice a change in operations if her position was curtailed or erased. She was redundant; an errand-runner, an overseer, an assistant. Her membership – if one could even call it that – was a sentimental thing. Sometimes, she didn’t think she even _wanted_ it anymore.

A lie, of course. She wanted it so much that it _hurt._

Mira kicked the drawer closed again, the thing splintering as it hitched, lopsided. Growling, she pulled until it gave way, flinging it across the room. Catching sight of her reflection in vanity’s looking glass, she threw her fist right into it. It shattered, her own image fracturing as the mirror broke into a hundred little pieces. Pain shot up her arm, clamouring at her elbow as she grunted, knuckles stinging.

She needed to throw things, _break_ things. Skin pulled from her nails as shredded the bed cover, relishing in the sound of the tearing blanket. Downy feathers floated across the room as she ripped open the pillows with her bare hands, hands burning with a white-knuckled grip. 

What would it take? It wasn’t her age, it wasn’t her gender, it wasn’t her history. The only thing left was her very _being_ , and there wasn’t much she could do to change that. No matter what she did, Mira wouldn’t be able to compare – not even to the fledgling _changelings_ that had charmed the Inner Circle so. Gods, what would it _take?_

Grabbing the mortar on the bedside table, Mira’s muscles strained as she blindly hurled it at the far wall. The plaster creaked and gave in, but amongst it was a startled yelp. Mira whirled to the doorway, that hot anger dissipating once she caught sight of Lucien’s alarmed face. For a moment his scar jarred her heart - had a splintering plasterboard cut his face? - but then she remembered it was no new wound.

“I heard…,” he trailed off, eyes wide as he took in the room. Shame burned high on Mira’s cheeks as she looked away, body aching as she lowered herself onto the big trunk at the foot of the bed. Letting her face fall into her hands, she swallowed a sob. She couldn’t look at what she’d done, at what she’d revealed to him – a sliver of what was perhaps her true self now. No one was meant to see her like this – not even Mira _herself,_ avoiding it by doping herself up – and especially not _Lucien;_ she could tell that his purpose in Velaris was much more virtuous than her own. She swallowed hard, letting her arms fall limp again. Her curled hands throbbed, stinging with every action.

Shattered glass, wood, and plaster covered the floor; it was impossible not to be aware of Lucien’s movements. Mira’s heart pounded as he remained there, silent and stationary. It felt like purgatory when he finally neared with hesitant steps, carefully kneeling before her. His loose hair and bowed head hid much of his expression, but Mira could see it had hardened.

“I’m sorry,” she rasped. Lucien found a strip of linen – no doubt once part of a pillow – and gingerly started to wipe at the small cuts oozing on her knuckles. He merely shook his head, gaze trained on her trembling hands.

Mira squeezed her eyes shut, but a silent tear tracked down her cheek anyway. “I’m not—I’m not usually like this.” The words felt hollow; she sometimes had a temper, yes, but she didn’t _lash out_ like this. She would bottle it and move on. Whatever was… _eating_ at her, it was changing her, too.

Lucien didn’t say anything. When he finally looked up at her, Mira’s breath shuddered at his downturned mouth and concerned eyes – commiseration. There was something layered to it, though; something else haunted him, a misery of his own. He was still holding her hands.

“Thank you for not asking why,” Mira murmured. _I’m no healer,_ he had said, but she could flex her fingers now without any burn; could breathe a bit easier, too, knowing she wouldn’t have to explain herself to him today.

“If you ever need me to ask,” he said, his light tone a bit strained, “you know where I live.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some more History lmao; i hope mira doesn't come across as too Whiny. cassian has once mentioned in the books i think (frost and starlight perhaps?) that the mating bond is So massively hyped up. for someone to find that something so innate to fae and illyrian culture has actually become unattainable to them -- i imagine it to be Quite Disheartening, especially for someone already struggling with heartbreak and belonging.
> 
> Anyway haha, a double update! as always, thank you for reading <3


	7. i.vii: storm's aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys tends to Mira after her outburst, while Lucien is conflicted about what he's seen.

Rhys’ joke had caught in his throat when he approached the impromptu gathering in Azriel’s office. He bypassed the brewing argument between Mor and Cassian, hearing words like _doubt_ and _dedication_ and _Mira_ being tossed into the air. Rhys shouldn’t have been surprised – he, like everyone in the Circle, was familiar with the tension between Mor and Mira. From the very beginning there had been envy and mistrust.

What _did_ surprise him, though, was brushing past Lucien as he entered Mira’s room. He would’ve dwelled, but his eyes widened at the sight before him. Mira knelt amongst the detritus, as broken and bowed as the shattered glass and ruined bedding. The furniture was splintered, drawers strewn across the room – Cauldron, even a _hole_ in the wall. There were traces of shimmering substances on the floor.

Rhys called forth his wings and flared them, the force pushing the door shut. Mira looked up, her face crumpling immediately as she breathed a sob. He crouched before her, worry sending his heart pounding as she reached for him, hiding her face against his shoulder. She shook, shuddering breaths quickly descending into heavy sobs.

Eyeing the surrounding destruction, Rhys tightened his grip around her. When it came to his friends, his _family_ , he wasn’t above being frightened for them, even as a High Lord. While they all had changed over the years, most had grown into the people they were meant to become. Mira, though – she’d been waning. Keeping to herself up there in mountains, finding comfort in things she shouldn’t.

“It’s not working,” she rasped, making Rhys frown. Even through her tears he had seen her dilated pupils, a tell-tale sign. She kept repeating it though, a rising note of hysteria in her voice. “It’s not working, it’s not working, _why_ _—”_

“Mira.” She startled at his firm tone, momentarily pulled from spiralling. "Just let me _help_ you." 

Perhaps a bit tactless, for Rhys, too, was a source of pain, but he was also the only one who  _knew_ about it. He might have to push her as he had done with Feyre; the darkness that had plagued his mate – the self-loathing, the self-doubt – mirrored itself in Mira. Falling out of love with her hadn’t been something consciously done, it had just… happened. There was no time to give closure – his duty demanded his time, and soon they were fighting a war, followed by all those years Under the Mountain. He had tried a few times, but perhaps it had been without tact, for she still sometimes couldn’t look him, or any of the others, in the eye. Why couldn’t she just _believe_ him when he said she was still important to him?

A delicate scratch at his mental walls, a gentle enquiry. _Later, Feyre darling._ He had thrown them up as he usually did when with Mira – her struggles were a private thing, and she didn’t want anyone to know besides him. If he hadn’t caught her that one time – it had been an accidental thing – he wondered, often with a twinge of guilt, whether he would’ve picked up on it at all.

“Why— _why_ am I not—”

She groaned, a throaty sound filled with such _agony_ that Rhys had to close his eyes. He wasn’t so arrogant to think her woe only revolved around a love affair of the past; it was a web of things, entangling her into a trap. Despite it all, somehow Mira was still the most forthcoming to him, more so when he wore his wings.

“Tell me what it is,” he murmured, the unease at the mess around them returning. Rhys knew she carried hurt, but this level of anger… Mira used to _laugh_ at those who wanted to bring her down, had expressed her irritation by honing her skills. She had never been prone to outbursts.

“Not _enough_ ,” she grunted. “Not for this, not for—It... it _gnaws_ —”

She was clutching at him now, panting erratically. “Breathe,” he said, jerking her chin to make her look at him. Her eyes, bloodshot and wild, were almost unrecognisable. She shook her head as her words descended into a fretful murmuring again, sending her rocking and crying _harder._

“Alright,” he sighed, acquiescing. He’d have to try again another time, when she was sober. He tried to calm her as best he could, but Mira was teetering on the edge. If he wasn’t careful, he feared she’d crumble irrevocably if he didn’t keep holding onto her. “Alright.”

 

+++

 

Lucien couldn’t process the words which lay before him, some arcane journal detailing a naturalist’s observations. His thoughts were still back there with Mira, who had apologised to _him_ even though he’d been the one to interrupt.

He’d been on his way here, to the kitchen, when dull thumps alerted him to something strange. Stepping into the room, he’d been ready to guide out yet _another_ errant bird – only the Mother knew how many had flown through the House’s vast windows – but it had been a clay bowl which soared past, knocking right into the wall. It hadn’t been coming _at_ him, but Lucien had startled anyway; it was surprise this time, though, not muscle memory.

The detritus reminded him _so much_ of Tamlin’s estate, left crumbling beneath the High Lord’s iron fist. The splintered furniture paralleled the disintegrating foundations, her shredded bedding so akin to the frayed banners of Spring heraldry laying limp in the corridors; and Mira was wilting, like the flowers of the ruined court. When he tended to her hands, the peculiar gleam to her nails had reminded him of something else in his past; he couldn’t quite place it, but it went further back than his time with Tamlin.

 _I’m not usually like this,_ she had said. He’d heard that before. The aftermath of her actions – on both herself and the room – spoke of a destructive anger Lucien had observed all too well.

Lucien glanced up when Rhys paused on the kitchen threshold. It was truly the House crossroads, this place, with corridors leading from it like the arms of a compass. When they had passed each other at the threshold of Mira’s room, it had been fleeting, both too preoccupied with other things. The High Lord didn’t swagger now as he was wont to do, but instead Rhys looked dismayed, even tired. His violet eyes held no amusement.

They seldom spoke, both too aware of recent histories to really become friends, but there was a tolerance there. Lucien had seen glimpses of a kind man, though; it was in the way he talked to his friends and advisors, in the way he had soothed Mira’s sob that had finally broken free. Lucien hadn’t lingered – his hunter’s senses were merely more acute than a normal Fae's ears – but he could tell it was something she’d been holding in when speaking to him, voice tight with the effort.

The fact of trust between Mira and Rhys made it hard, then, to truly consider the similarities he didn’t quite want to face. He’d noted her moments of despondency, when she’d lose herself in shadows and nothingness, the way she distanced herself from the others. Tamlin carried the same shadows; on some mornings, Lucien would wonder whether Tamlin had the energy to even eat that day. To see that wrecked room, the last remnants of _rage_ slipping from Mira’s mouth – it had almost been too much.  

Yet, holding the High Lord’s gaze, Lucien also knew that it was no secret that Rhys, along with the rest of his Inner Circle, held no respect for Tamlin or his behaviour. Certainly, Mira had to be different if Rhys could treat her with such obvious care, despite her hard edge.

Lucien also couldn’t deny her kindness. She hadn’t been short with him, not once – perhaps absentminded at times, but there had been the headaches she had to contend with. Mira had _laughed_ with him, and her open admiration of his skills made him feel confident in himself again; a feeling that tended to come and go. Her drawn face softened when she wasn’t alone. Indeed, her storm had been a contained thing – no one breaks a mirror without intending to hurt what they see reflected in it.  

Rhys left as soundless as he came. Lucien returned to the journal, squinting at the illustration of a long-eared hare. He had expected Mira to return home after they’d lost their quarry that day in the forest, but there had been a smile on her face, simply wishing to try again.

No, he wouldn’t give up on this. She, after all, hadn’t eschewed him when he’d fled from her so abruptly during their roast dinner; hadn’t pushed her clearly contrasting views regarding humans upon him. Mira was—respectful. It was so foreign for Lucien to be on the receiving end of it, but it felt… good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor conflicted lucien!! he's mature enough to realise that projecting his own experiences on someone who doesn't quite fit the description is unjust in itself, though. bah! just want these two to be okay :(


	8. i.viii: resolve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fearing she's lost Lucien's favour, Mira seeks him out.

Mira lingered at the entrance to the library, squirming beneath the foreign clothes – a linen shirt tucked into black pants, soft lace-up boots coming up to her knees. She preferred her leathers, no matter how casual the occasion, but it had been Rhys’ suggestion to put them aside for a while. He also encouraged her to come over to the townhouse more often, and to join Cassian and Azriel’s morning training sessions. Despite Mira not promising anything, Rhys had been so patient with her while she remained bedridden for two days, heart too sore to deal with anything besides sleep.

She could only see the back of it, but Lucien lounged on one of the more luxurious armchairs, long legs sprawled out before him. He must have been slouching into the plush backrest, absorbed by the tome he was reading. He made the occasional vague gesture, often accompanying a soft, derisive scoff at whatever was on the page. Despite her anxiety, Mira had to stifle a laugh – he _clearly_ thought he was alone.

She hoped she wasn’t too sheepish as she approached, rounding the chair to finally face him. “I have a rumour for you,” she said, a hint of humour flickering within her as Lucien hastily righted himself, but relaxing once he saw her face. He fell back into the chair – albeit with improved posture – and rested his ankle on his knee.

“Yes?” Mira could sense that his nonchalance, like hers, was strained.

“I heard the reason why Summer’s guards are so good at swimming is because they’ve all slept with sirens.” Lucien squinted with suspicion. “It’s also why they never take their armour off – it’s the only thing keeping them from turning into _fish!_ ”

He regarded her with a schooled face. For a moment, Mira worried that she was unwelcome, but then he smirked. “How _scandalous,_ ” he drawled, clearly not convinced but allowing her his amusement nonetheless. Mira huffed a half-hearted chuckle, but this dim mirth soon faded into a frown. She crouched next to the chair, almost level with him when he leaned forward, brow furrowed.

Mira couldn’t look at him, however, gaze trained on her hands as she wrung them. “I hope I haven’t scared you off,” she murmured. “I didn’t intend for you to see that part of myself.”

“Are you—alright?”

Mira hummed ruefully. “It was a lapse.” Throughout it all, the effect of Faedust had been subdued; the rage had felt like her own unadulterated feelings. The fact rattled her, for it meant the relationship was changing – the next step would be to increase the dose if she wanted to get anything out of a hit at all. The worry in Rhys’ eyes made her pause, however; the High Lord did not beg, but Mira thought his increased visits were fuelled by mounting concern. Yet, with all her powders having gone to waste in that fit of anger, Mira had no choice but to find a way without it anyway. Perhaps she could do it, if she just avoided the triggers… but Velaris was a minefield of them.

Looking up at Lucien, though, Mira thought him a safe space. “I like you, Lucien,” she whispered, nose stinging with the threat of tears. Emotion was what governed the Illyrians, strengthened them. She wasn’t afraid to let hers show, even if they were unwieldly at times. “I hope we’re still friends.”

The words were childish, but there was no other way to say it. Only Rhys had been confronted with that version of herself, and he’d had a whole history with her to help him overcome whatever pause he may have had at the use of Faedust. While Lucien hadn’t been aware of it, and the hit turned out to be mild at best, he’d still seen her _high._

“Of course we’re still friends,” he said, mouth quirking. It was a small smile, but Mira preferred its honesty over a false grin. “Who else would I gossip with?”

Mira breathed a laugh, wings drooping with relief. “You didn’t walk away. You helped me, yet I still worried…”

Lucien put his book aside as he stood, bringing Mira up by her elbow. She was wide-eyed at the warmth that seeped through her sleeve, taken unawares by the contact. He even put a hand on her shoulder. “I mean it, Mira. I like spending time with you.” Her heart lifted at his words, the lightest it’s been since the incident. She shared his smile, something soft; not a hint of teasing about it.

The moment passed as his smirk returned. “You are no scandalmonger, however. You wouldn’t even last a day in court.”

“Why not?”

“There’s a fine line between slander and rumour, you know.”

She frowned. “Gossip has _rules_?”

He raised an indignant brow. “Of _course_ it does! It’s an art.”

“Ah,” she inclined her head, trying to hide her smirk. “Forgive my ignorance. I come from a no-nonsense culture.”

“It’s not nonse—”

He stopped short. Blinked. Mira cackled as he realised he couldn’t _quite_ defend himself, given the frivolity of the few rumours he had shared so far. He grumbled something under his breath instead, but his eyes were filled with humour.

“Clever. Perhaps there is hope for you yet.”

The strange distance Mira had put between herself and the Inner Circle – she didn’t want that to happen with Lucien. Sinister thoughts whispered that he was just another distraction, a means of avoiding the things she didn’t want to face. He had a way of making things bright again, like Faedust.

But Mira didn’t want to see things that way. Lucien was something else, something healthy – he _had_ to be. The Night Court sometimes smothered her, littered with her memories and failures. Lucien was from elsewhere, though. Lucien _was_ elsewhere. The stories he carried, the cleverness in his eyes – Mira didn’t enjoy them as distraction, but rather for what they were.


	9. i.ix: on the steps

Mira grunted as she lowered her chest to the ground again, palms scratching against the unforgiving concrete of the House’s open training deck. Each push-up was more difficult than the last.

“Sweating already?” Cassian cooed from her side, faring much smoother than her.

“It means I’m working _harder,_ ” she gritted, ignoring his scoff that followed. Her arms wobbled, burning as she tried to keep from slipping.

“Two hundred and fifty- _one,_ two hundred and fifty- _two,_ ” he sang, and Mira had to pause to roll her eyes. While prone to exaggeration, Cassian’s pace was indeed much faster than hers, body dipping and rising in the span it took for her to merely prepare for the next one.

“Compensating for something?” she breathed, taking the excuse of banter to avoid another set. Mira wheezed as his flawless rhythm stuttered.

Azriel nudged her shoulder, inclining his head to the rack of weapons. Mira nodded, body aching as she righted herself. Wiping the sweat from her brow, she watched Azriel choose a pair of wooden daggers, handing her a sword to match.

She raised her brows in question. Usually, they fought with steel to mimic conditions of real combat as closely as possible. Mira’s proficiency lay with shields, to wield off arrows from below, and in a variety of pole arms, to gut enemies and throw them off their path. Azriel merely blinked, face blank as ever.

Mira took the weapon, adjusting her grip to the weight. Her preferences may lie elsewhere, but she was no one-trick pony. Mira squinted as they entered the sparring circle, the sun beating down on her neck.

Azriel stood, knives drawn at his sides. Mira hid her free hand behind her back, lowering into a defensive stance. It was Azriel who taught her the finer things of combat, while Cassian had honed her wrathful strength.

She lunged for his gut, predictable just for the sake of starting the fight – Azriel rarely chose to initiate. He dodged, swift and smooth, daggers coming at her back. Mira spun, angling to catch both. Whipping her sword away, Azriel stumbled at the loss. She feinted left, watching his knife come to block before she dragged her attack to the right. Azriel recovered before her blow could land, dragging his daggers against her blade to send it off course. Mira breathed hard, eyes trained on Azriel’s hands – it was the body one had to watch in combat, not the face.

Mira grunted as she raised her sword high, coming down on his head. Azriel blocked it above his shoulder, dropping his other knife to grasp at her pommel. Her arm twisted as he angled the blade away, coming up to point his knife at her gut.

Pulling away, they reset as they circled each other. She lunged again, striking low but he jumped over the arc. Mira couldn’t halt; the momentum carried the move through, exposing her. His shadow swathed her in darkness from behind, both daggers pressing lightly against her throat.

Azriel didn’t linger, freeing her when she swallowed.  She whirled, braids flying as she struck high, the wood cracking as Azriel parried. She ducked, swiping low and he blocked again, strong enough to hold her force at bay with his smaller blades. She went for his neck, her stance stuttering when Azriel caught the pommel again, ducked out of the way as he carried the momentum through. Up and over went the sword as a discreet dagger met her side.

Mira stepped back, head swimming. Three defeats in the span of mere moments. Crossed blades flashed high in the air, and Mira raised her sword to block. Azriel leaned forward, towering and heavy. Mira grunted, hunching as pushed back against his weight.

He looked her over as her muscles strained, wings flaring for balance. “You’ve become slow. Weak.” Azriel didn’t goad, not even in the heat of battle - this was no critique. It was a simple comment, disguising the unasked question beneath.

They might not have indulged in the mating bond, but they had an understanding. Mira told him of it when she had somewhat acquiesced to the fact of its unattainability, because despite her own grievances, Azriel deserved to know. Nothing changed, however – not their friendship, not their loyalty – but he did start keeping a closer eye on her during battle.

She didn’t want to acknowledge his words, but the waning strength was hinting at the beginnings of withdrawal. Is this why he’d chosen wooden weapons? She winced, trembling with the effort of holding her ground. When he finally relented, Mira’s whole body sagged with relief.

A hard hand clapped her back, sending her stumbling. “My turn,” declared Cassian, voice booming like only an Illyrian’s could. She met him with a grimace, walking past him and into the inner courtyard of the House instead. Her arm blindly rifled over the table as she searched for a waterskin, squinting.

“You’re making me feel unfit,” drawled Lucien, handing her a cooled canteen. He must have been on his way down to Velaris, for all his hunting equipment was absent.

“Oh, please,” she breathed, “you’re the one who climbs those stairs every day.” The hundreds of steps that led down to the edge of the city was artfully hidden within the jagged cliff face, glamoured to all eyes but the Inner Circle – and Lucien. Since the House was warded against winnowing, it was the only way for Lucien to come and go as he pleased.

“I have traversed far more daunting paths,” he chuckled. Mira raised her canteen in wordless acknowledgment, and he made to leave. “Regardless, I must face its peril again if I’m to replace my bowstrings.”

Mira quickly wiped away the sweat before following him. “Your bow is broken?”

“No, it’s—”

Lucien straightened as he looked beyond her, clasping his hands behind his back as he gave a stiff nod. Turning, Mira found Cassian still waiting on her. Realising she wasn’t going to return to training, Cassian’s eyes widened.

 _“Treason!_ ” he gasped, making Mira chuckle and Azriel heave a long-suffering sigh. Lucien and Mira continued along the cliff edge, and soon the clash of swords sounded distant. Lucien relaxed again, and it was a visible thing – slightly leaning toward her, arms at his sides, face not as schooled as before.

“You’re the only one I see outside of meetings,” he admitted as they found the ravine. “I don’t quite know how to act around the rest. It’s been some time.”

“I feel the same way, sometimes.” Mira had noted that he curbed his wit when the others were present, replacing it with polite deference. He could keep up with the likes of Rhys if he wanted to, but that boldness… it had only shown itself to Mira. “But you don’t have to be so careful all the time,” she murmured. He looked back at her, but Mira couldn’t read his expression. “If you want to be, I can understand that. I just hope you don’t feel like you _need_ to be.”

“I’ve made too many mistakes to not be careful, I’m afraid.”

Lucien was looking out towards Velaris sprawling beneath them, all whitewashed houses and cobblestone streets. A winter’s sun was shining, but he looked as tired as he did that first night, swathed in the shadow of memory. He was masterful with his wit, made it easy to only see the charismatic courtier. Yet now with his profile only showing the scar, that horrible, jagged _scratch_ down his handsome face, Mira could see the sadness there, a kind that the humans might even call _ancient._

Mira was a mess of her own. Lucien, however… things had been done  _to_ him.

“Is Velaris your home?” he asked, still watching the Sidra sparkle beyond. They had long since paused on the stairway. 

“I’ve never thought in such terms – there’s no place for it in the camps. Velaris is just somewhere I’ve lived.” He frowned a little, but Mira stepped closer. “Do you miss _your_ home?”

“I don’t know where it is anymore, but I do miss the feeling of it.” Perhaps it was because he’d travelled so much, seen so many places, but Mira knew it was also because he had lost. Why else debt yourself to the Night Court, a place containing things that even High Lord Rhysand himself would rather avoid?

There was a moment’s hesitation, but she wanted to be there for him, just as he'd been for her. Mira touched his elbow first, watching closely for any reaction. He was eyeing her movements, but didn’t stiffen. Hand falling to his, she gently interlocked their fingers. Lucien could pull away if he wanted to, for Mira’s touch was light and yielding, but he only curled his fingers just a little more, covering her healing knuckles. 


	10. i.x: perpendicular lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mira and Nesta have an eventful night out. Later, still a little drunk, Mira finds Lucien while he gets ready for his day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg i'm SO sorry about the long break... but exams will be over soon, so hopefully updates will slowly become regular again! this story is super planned out, i just gotta Write it!! thank you for sticking with me, & i hope you enjoy!

Mira’s lip curled as the drink’s bitter aftertaste lingered, pushing the glass back to the bartender. “Another,” she coughed, surveying the bottle which housed this specific spirit. It was moulded in the shape of a dragon’s skull, a daunting warning to those who were curious about the famed concoction called _dragon’s piss._ Mira guessed it was merely fresh moonshine – rather impressively, it tasted like the brews her soldiers would make between assignments – but you never knew with these kinds of things.

Overhead, some High Fae had conjured a ball of light, pulsing and flashing as it hovered. The tavern behind her was lit only in momentary flashes, seductive and alluring in fleeting images: a flash of a white grin, the glint of a shimmering wing, the gleam of sweat on skin. A flutist was playing a jaunty tune to her left, up on a tabletop where he showed everyone just how quick his fingers could be. Mira watched him for a moment; he was rather striking, brown hair dishevelled in a way that just oozed hedonism. He looked over with a wink, and a confused smile pulled at Mira’s lips – that couldn’t have been meant for her, could it? – until a cold hand grasped her wrist, turning her to face the musician’s true recipient.

Nesta. Her features were darker in this light, but there was a certain clench in her jaw that Mira caught immediately. It wasn’t born of impatience, but rather desperation. Her expression, however, was still schooled as always.

“Do you have any?” she asked, still clutching Mira’s wrist. The flush of alcohol was on Nesta’s cheeks, but her gaze was clear.

“Any what?” Mira countered, smug as Nesta shifted on her feet. Mira knew what Nesta wanted, but they talked to each other so infrequently that Mira wanted this interaction to last longer than mere question and answer. Nesta’s eyes narrowed, but Mira only smirked with amusement. It was inspiring to see just how _quick_ she could be, with either wit or insult. Nesta always knew when she was being played with, and Mira loved it when she would turn the tables against her opponent within moments – even if it was herself.

Without caution, Nesta seethed, “ _Faedust._ ”

Mira’s smirk fell, looking about them as she pulled Nesta into the fray of writhing bodies. Safer here, where words would become lost before it reached attentive ears. Brows furrowed now, her jaw worked as she took in Nesta’s state: elegant navy dress, loose hair escaping from that perfect bun, a dangerous _want_ in her eye. Mira shifted on her feet, guilt constricting her throat. She’d made the mistake of giving Nesta a hit of faedust once, and it had been no beginner’s drug, either. She’d watched with dilated pupils as Nesta lost herself in the ecstasy, giving a glimpse into what her true, unadulterated smile might have looked like.

“I don’t have any,” she said, as calmly as she could. Her heart pulsed along with the flashing beacon of light, skin growing hot as others bumped knee or elbow against her as they danced. Mira had hoped Nesta had forgotten about it, but clearly the sensations had stayed with her – she was still gripping onto Mira’s forearm, Mira curling her own hand over Nesta’s wrist. Her skin was cold as always, a welcome relief in the stifling tavern.

Nesta paused as she considered the reply, giving Mira such a scrutinising gaze that if it were anyone else, it would have reminded them of her latent power, still brewing inside her. Something dark and foreboding, cousin to death itself. Yet, this was Mira, who was certainly not afraid of this woman – not because she was not worthy of being feared, but because she knew that Mira was the only one in all the _land_ who could come close to understanding her motivations.

“Liar,” Nesta declared, leaning close to be heard over the rumbling of the crowd. Mira’s breath hitched at how quick Nesta saw through her, the strangest thrill running down her spine. Nesta’s grip was tight now, borderline painful as she did all she could to put on that headstrong, cruel persona. “Give me some of it.”  

Mira’s face broke with a grin, throwing her head back with a laugh. This annoyed Nesta further, giving Mira a rough shake. Indeed; Mira had searched the many rooms of the House of Wind during a sleepless night, finding some dregs of her powders in leftover stashes in particular nooks and crannies. She’d intended to keep it for when the withdrawal got _really_ unbearable, perhaps use it to wean herself off. Mira had managed for a while, too, Rhys’ worries and Lucien’s friendship motivating her to really _try_ this time.

However, the knowledge of the powders – available, tempting – was always in the back of her mind. _Just once more,_ they seemed to whisper, _just a little taste._

And tonight, Mira had simply gotten bored. It was pathetic – weak, even – but Mira knew it to be the truth. She had rubbed it into her gums with fervency, audacious enough to give Lucien a big wave as she left the House. It hadn’t been much – a microdose, if anything – so whatever noble plans she had of sparing it were actually quite impractical anyway; better to just get it over with and succumb before she had a longer stretch of sobriety to forfeit for it. She didn’t know _what_ kind of combination she had created, but it sure turned out to be a little kicker.

Mira curled her lip to turn her smile wicked. “Then come _take_ some,” she said, voice husky as her gaze flitted from Nesta’s blue-grey eyes to her full lips, leaning until she felt the cold press of Nesta’s lips against her own. Only later would Mira recognise that they were softer than she’d expected, but in the moment, all Mira could think of was how Nesta _tasted,_ like something sweet and something bitter all at once. They parted for but one breath, Mira barely catching Nesta’s indignation before their lips met again, harsher, rougher. Mira moulded her lips to Nesta’s over and over, meeting the woman’s force and pressure, lifting her hands to cup Nesta’s face. Cauldron, she was devastating, holding Mira’s kisses in a way that made the Illyrian want to just _hug_ her.

When they pulled away, Mira was panting, eyes wide as she stayed alert for Nesta’s next move. She didn’t know what she’d been thinking, but what had been intended as a tease had turned into something much more. She didn’t know what it was, but it certainly wasn’t love – this was much sharper than that. Infatuation maybe, or perhaps just an understanding so rare yet longed for that it manifested itself in the boldest way it could.

Nesta’s jaw feathered, but she was by no means rigid; her nails dug into Mira’s skin, seeking to keep her there. “This cannot happen,” she murmured, and in the flash of light that illuminated them for only a moment, Mira thought she could see the hint of an unknowable affliction in Nesta’s eyes.

“ _Why?_ ” she demanded, glaring. It was irrational, this flare of anger which gripped her – did she just not seem like a good enough partner to _anyone?_ They wouldn’t have to hide their very worst from each other, because they’d both seen it. Encouraged it, even.

“You know why,” said Nesta, her gaze finally sliding away. Indeed; perhaps _all_ they knewof each other were their worst features. Despite it all, Nesta leaned in once more; a much softer kiss this time, with her hands curled around the sides of Mira’s neck.

“You don’t owe them anything,” Mira muttered, reluctantly letting go. Nesta merely levelled her gaze, and in that moment, she seemed much older than Mira. Someone tried to squeeze past with a tray, balancing numerous short, stocky shot glasses; Nesta swiped one, ignoring the Fae’s annoyed grumble as she downed the liquid inside.

Mira knew what that meant. In a mere blink, whatever had bewitched them to forget reality faded away again. With some strange sense of relief, she was glad that nothing had _really_ changed between them; perhaps there was the unexplored regret of something unattainable, yes, but they were still mirrors of each other. They’d do the same things tonight as always, drink and dance and distract themselves; together for the time being, only to wake up alone again in the morning.

 

+++

 

Pale morning light shone through the House’s windows, casting all kinds of pretty shapes on the rich rugs as she trudged through the corridors. Mira honestly didn’t know how she always managed her way back after nights out, whether her body aches were from dancing or banging into all manner of things in her attempt to traverse the streets.  

Passing a doorway, Mira heard the murmur of conversation from within. She poked her head inside, watching Rhys, Azriel and Mor discussed some insights from the Hewn City. Still feeling the effects of drinks titled _gut rot_ and _harpy spit,_ Mira could only laugh when Azriel interrupted, not even looking up from his notes as he said, “I trained you better than to merely _loiter_.” 

“Hello, Azriel,” she mused, her smile a little too loose for someone like her. The wall was cool against her skin as she pressed against it, her long curls dangling as she cocked her head. Rhys turned with a small smile growing on his lips, as if given a pleasant surprise, but the light in eyes soon dimmed when he took in the state of her.

“I can smell the ale from here,” Mor remarked. It could have been a teasing quip if it were someone else, but Mira and Mor’s animosity could turn even the simplest of phrases, the most neutral of tones into insult. Mira only snorted, too removed too find the energy to call up that familiar anger.

“Don’t be a hypocrite,” she dismissed, limbs moving slow to get her upright again. “None of you are a stranger to revelry,” she crooned, eyes narrowing as her demeanour turned mocking, a growl slipping into her voice. “You party _just_ as hard as I do.”

Rhys caught her gaze then, something hard flashing in his violet eyes. Mira could only grin, laughing as she found it all just so _ridiculous –_ even now, in this strange, fluid, relaxed state, Mira knew she was too jaded for this court. She sought belonging? Perhaps the nightmare twin to Velaris would suit her better.

She laughed again, wiping the tears from her eyes as she left the trio in that room, bewildered. That would certainly be poetic, to find her way back to where this addiction began. Indeed, maybe it would all end there. She almost expected Rhys to come out after her, but soon the rug beneath her feet changed into tiles, then there’d been stairs, eventually finding herself in another wing of the House.

Ahead, a series of thumps made her pause. Lucien stepped out from one of the rooms, gesturing wildly toward the window opposite. Mira stifled a laugh, able to see from yards away that he looked rather unkempt, as if he’d been interrupted while dressing; still barefoot, and shirt only buttoned halfway.  

Suddenly, the flap of wings echoed down the hallway as a bird rushed from his room and out the window, leaving with a wobbly warble that sounded almost thankful. “Yes, yes,” he muttered, waving a dismissive hand at it as he glared after it. Mira neared then, just as he was running a hand through his loose, messy hair.

He was still breathing hard, eyeing her creased clothes and bloodshot eyes. His previous exasperation was fading, but it had been refreshing to see him move like that, keeping up appearances for no one. She was glad that he didn’t school himself now as a knowing smirk crossed his features. “Big night?” he asked, raising a brow.

“Aye,” she nodded, beating a fist to her chest. She missed his amused confusion as she bent to pick up a fallen feather. “Did you have a row with your visitor?”

He rolled his eyes, the metal one whirring as he righted his shirt. “They fly in all the time,” he said, but looked her over once more. “Did you just get back in?”

Mira nodded, eyes closing as a soft laugh fell from her lips. She rubbed at her face, trying to wipe the fatigue away from her eyes. With a sniff, she realised that she didn’t want to be alone, not yet. “Could I stay?” she asked, seeing that Lucien was on the threshold of his room, hand on the knob. “Just for a little while?”

His brow twitched, but he nodded. She entered, finding the room to be a mirror to the many guest suites found within the House – spacious with a soft, patterned carpet, complete with stylised furniture. Yet, while hers looked somehow bare, Lucien had managed to turn his into something different, something almost homely. While it was clear he was hesitant to add any major changes, the room was toned with earthly colours. There was a hairbrush on the vanity, books on the bedside table, and his hunting equipment was displayed on a neat weapons rack – something he must have modified from a hook meant for a portrait.

Her lips quirked as she folded herself into a plush lounge chair, throwing her legs over the arm of it. She played with the feather in her hands, ruffling it and twirling it around as Lucien sat on the bed, pulling on his socks.

“The birds – this seriously does not happen to you?” he asked, only somewhat incredulous. His fingers were making quick work of his boot laces.

 _"I’m_ a bird,” she hummed, flexing her wings with a chuckle. Lucien only let out an amused huff, nodding to himself more than her.Then Mira relented with a grin, shaking her head. “They _like_ you,” she offered, extending her hand to him. Amusement shone in his eye as he considered her, all loose and draped over herself in the chair. He reached over and squeezed her fingers, making Mira’s heart race as she saw the smile pulling at his mouth. When he did so, it creased his scar in a way that made it hard to overlook, and some of Mira’s blissful haze faded away as she was reminded of cruel things once more. She could feel the hangover coming, the threat of a headache at the back of her skull.

So she quietened, watching Lucien as he continued to get ready for the day. Her lids grew heavy as he brushed his hair back into order again, their conversation soft-spoken and often humorous with Mira’s tongue loose with absurdisms. It was peculiar, the kind of calmness that spread over her – it was different to the ease which alcohol offered. It grounded her, and Mira found that she preferred this to that aimless, hazy, floating feeling of her vices.

Later, when she’d awake to Lucien’s empty room, a glass of water would be waiting for her on the vanity – a farewell and another greeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, a lot to Unpack amiright 
> 
> a) nesta and mira's storyline has not concluded yet, but i had a little breakdown realising mira - through some strange writer witchcraft - would actually be better paired with nesta than lucien. however, tis not the case!! it will be addressed within the story of course as it progresses. i love nesta tho :( 
> 
> b) i find it hilarious that in this setting, musicians specialising in woodwind instruments are quite capable of becoming similar to rock stars lmao. some Lore: the flutist is actually a minor character from my other ao3 story w/ azriel :3 (tis bastian!) 
> 
> c) thank you for reading!! x


	11. i.xi: minstrel's rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mira takes Lucien out to a tavern, where the music makes him remember things from Spring - mostly good, some bad. Later, Mira asks Azriel for information concerning what happened in the events leading up to the war with Hybern.

Looking around, Lucien was sure that the Minstrel’s Rest wasn’t a tavern that Mira often frequented; the strongest drink here was only cider, and she didn’t seem the type to like sweet and light things like that.

He laughed along with the crowd as the flutist played another humorous ditty, the punchline to their joke. He was a handsome young male, a bit of a rogue, who clearly knew how to entertain a crowd beyond performing mere recitals. Apparently, quite popular too – with the evening markets stirring just outside, he and Mira almost had trouble finding a seat. Lucien watched as still _more_ people came in, shifting on their feet but seemingly happy to stand, eager to take part in a night of comedy, music, and wordplay. He could see it in the glint of their eyes under the soft candlelight, which only added to the cosiness of the inn. The flooring may be faded, and the varnished tables may still be scratched, but the Minstrel’s Rest was clearly well-loved.

Pressed next to Lucien in one of the booths lining the walls, Mira craned her neck to see what was happening onstage as an applause filled the room – the flutist, Bastian, was saying farewell for now – but by doing so her chin came to rest on his shoulder, and he became much more aware of her warmth than that dealt by the embers of firelight. She hummed as a young female shouted something particularly suggestive at him, a quip Bastian took in his stride with a wink and a salute.

Her smile was barely there, and her lids were low – a little subdued again, then. A lot of things were said when she came to his room that one morning, all casual and inconsequential; he’d been wondering whether she’d even remember it, remember saying _I’ll take you out sometime_ after a mindless tease he’d thrown at her, something like _you certainly had fun; you’re still having it now_ (she’d been snickering over some half-hearted jest). Then she’d offered again, however, when she was sober. While he indeed wanted to see what _her_ view of Velaris was, a part of him had also been eager to just drown in drink, give in to a night of hedonist abandon. Mira certainly knew how to do just that; her loose tongue had slipped a few stories he would – in future – never let her forget.

So when Mira had brought him here, to an establishment friendly to _families,_ he couldn’t help but feel a sliver of disappointment. As she leaned against him, though, as her long hair tickled his wrist… perhaps this was something better after all.

Lucien’s attention turned back to the stage when a tambour drum rumbled, and up stepped a quartet of faeries, each boasting a different instrument. The wail of bagpipes led the jolly tune, garnering cheers from the crowd. The flute and the lute soon joined too, and he was grinning, heart racing with the rhythm of the music. It reminded him of all those hearty, heady festivals he’d attended, where the dancing and twirling went on for hours and hours. Merry songs, rosebushes, flowing dresses, citrus and tarts and berries, and now Lucien was thinking about Calanmai, about maypoles and rolling hills and the scent of grass, fresh and happy and inviting. Cauldron, how he had loved those parties; the stolen kisses, the playful winks, the beautiful blossoming of delicate flowers come morning.

He felt so _light_ as the troubadours played on, reintroducing the energy of a courtier into his bones, the _exhilaration_. Lucien had been so in his element that he hadn’t even noted Mira’s touch on his arm, but then again, perhaps he’d grown used to it. She usually did so to warn him of her closeness, or to wordlessly ask for his hand. It was nice, that she always checked with him before; it wasn’t obtrusive either, but a simple gesture that he could choose what to do with, whether that would be to intertwine their fingers or to decline the touch altogether.

Right now, he took Mira’s hand in his as he turned to her. “Oh, Mira – I think you would have loved it.”

She brightened a little, smile pulling at her mouth. It was softer than her usual ones, which were always a little bit sharp – or perhaps it was only the candlelight which made it so. “Loved what?”

“The celebrations of Spring,” he said with a note of reverence in his voice. “ _Cauldron –_ it’s not only us who dance, but the fire, too. The smoke. The flowers. You could lose yourself in it all without even a sip of drink.” Something crossed Mira’s face at that, something between awe and curiosity. “And the musicians… it is they who awaken the land’s magic, I’m sure of it. They who guide it. Spring’s festivals… they gave me a joy unlike any other.”

Mira leaned back against the cushions of the booth’s faded burgundy sofa, thumb running once over his knuckles. She might have looked a little tired, but Lucien had come to realise that calm and fatigue looked identical on her. She was looking _at_ him, though, not through him, and that reassured him that she was indeed _present._

“You’d make a good musician,” she murmured, and he had to lean a little closer to hear her better – the crowd was now clapping along with the performance. “A string instrument, I think, with your clever hunter’s fingers.”

Lucien raised a brow, unsure whether she meant the innuendo. He didn’t want that kind of thing, not now, but it did raise a question within him. Before he could ponder further, however, he caught her eyes shifting back to the stage.

With the quartet gone, a High Fae female now sat on a stool, readying her fiddle. The crowd was still buzzing with energy, but something about her quiet grace eventually hushed the room. Even Mira was leaning forward again, their hands still clasped.

When the female began to play, it was with long, slow strokes. The notes were low and pining, but so beautiful, so gentle that, quite strangely, it _hurt._ The moving melody reminded him of a manor, of _Rosehall_ , all its pretty whitewashed walls and flower gardens. Time spent in the library, in the study, talking politics and hunting. Laughter at the feast table and drinks on the balcony, watching the guards tend to their mounts. Fleeting images of golden hair, green eyes, clothes of tanned leather. Tam’s skill in the fiddle could bewitch even the likes of—

 _Oh,_ Lucien realised with a thick swallow. This was nostalgia. He hadn’t called Tamlin _Tam_ since...

Since Under the Mountain.

Perhaps he’d been – foolishly – wearing his heart on his sleeve, for Mira now squeezed both his hands. “Lucien?” she whispered, but he was still looking at the musician, his throat constricting painfully. “What is it?” Mira tried again, her body going a little rigid next to him. “I can—I can _make_ them stop playing—”

Despite himself, Lucien let out a wry chuckle at the conviction in her tone. He tore his gaze away from the High Fae, but couldn’t quite look at Mira yet. Eyes downcast, but body turned to her again, Lucien smiled ruefully. “No,” he murmured. “Let her play the love song.”

She moved slow, hands travelling up his arms to grip his shoulders. Her silence told him that she didn’t quite know what to say, but Lucien was only distantly aware of this – inside him, he could feel something more painful than mere nostalgia clutching at his chest.

“I… _Cauldron,_ it was my fault, the masks—if I just hadn’t been so vain—”

“Lucien—”

“—I caused so much hurt by doing nothing, I _knew_ but I just couldn’t… a _coward,_ letting it happen—”

Gritting his teeth, Lucien turned his face to the side when his nose stung sharply, trying to hide from Mira and other patrons alike. He needed to _control_ himself, but by remembering Tamlin – thinking of him as a dear friend, in the way he once had – brought the harsher, meaner memories of Spring back. The fights, those claws… everything that had poisoned the place and the _person_ he had been so, _so_ loyal to. Lucien’s duty had made him party to many things he now came to regret, and it _ate_ at him, ate at his happy memories. How could he have spoken so fondly of Fire Night without even thinking of his last one, where Ianthe had not only blurred lines but crossed them as well?

Lucien was breathing through his nose, eyes shut tight. He’d almost forgot Mira was right in front of him, and now he winced, embarrassed. She carefully cupped his jaw, tilting his head to so that he could finally look her in the eye. What he saw was blurred, but there was solemnity on her face. Her thumb gently wiped beneath his russet eye, catching the tear that had fallen.

“Do you want forgiveness?” she asked, and it caught Lucien so off guard that his brows furrowed. Some part of him feared she was going to condemn him, as closely knitted as she was with Night’s rulers. He searched her eyes, hands lifting to clutch at her elbows. Could Mira be right? Was it the longing for forgiveness that had driven him to the Night Court of all places, using Feyre’s invitation as excuse? Indeed, his side had harmed every godsdamned member of the Inner Circle in one way or another. Had he come to Velaris – knowing some faces of the Inner Circle could elicit strong and agonising memories – in some pitiful search of absolution?

Lucien’s jaw worked as his mind raced, eye welling up again. Mira only sighed, bringing him down to lean his forehead against hers. “I can give you forgiveness,” she murmured, almost to herself, but he caught it, letting out a haggard breath. His heart was pounding with the force of holding his tears back, but there was no need – Mira’s wings rustled as she lifted them for further privacy. Perhaps a few more escaped as he tried to stay quiet, the crowd so silent as the musician continued to play her achingly stunning repertoire.

Their noses brushed as they stayed like that, eyes closed and heads resting against each other. “I’m sorry,” said Mira. “We should’ve gone somewhere else.”

His mouth tightened, somewhat surprised that he disagreed. “No. I’m thankful you brought me here.” The music… it had shown him that not all his memories were fully tainted, if he could relive the joy of Calanmai without the stain of Ianthe interfering. Indeed, not everything had to be subdued with loss and pain. Sometimes the good could hurt too, but was this not what healing was like? A little bit painful, a little bit joyful?

Taking a deep breath to slow his pulse, Lucien could smell the common aloe soap Mira used. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to erase the weakness he had just displayed, the vulnerability. He hadn’t meant to – had _fought_ against it, yet it all still bubbled up – but now she’d seen, for better or worse. Yet, despite it all… Lucien trusted her. He allowed himself to indulge in the intimacy a moment longer, savouring her touch.

He then cradled the back of her neck, leaning back to look at her as he managed a weak smirk. “I would’ve chosen the lyre,” he mused a little hoarsely. Mira’s brief confusion melted into a snort, her eyes shining with amusement, making it a little easier for Lucien to smile.

 

+++

 

Later that week, Mira sat in Azriel’s office, studying the spines of the many tomes his bookshelf held. If it had been anyone else, he would’ve sent them on their way with a stern, stoic gaze, but Mira guessed he’d made some allowances for her.

“Is there something on your mind?” he murmured, shadows coiling about his talons. She glanced at him from across the room, watching as he set aside another missive he’d finished writing. Sometimes she wondered whether he was accommodating her only out of guilt after they’d dismissed the bond, but he’d assured her that wasn’t the case. Indeed, Mira had come to note the genuine concern behind his questions which seemed rather stilted to the onlooker, always revolving around health or work.

“I don’t know much about the events preceding the war,” she started, aware of Azriel’s shadows darkening ever so slightly. He had stilled, regarding her carefully. “The chronicles are all biased. Feyre this, Feyre that. She didn’t singlehandedly save Prythian, but Velaris would surely like to believe so.”

“Mira,” he said, but it wasn’t an admonishment. His eyes flicked to the open door, and with a sigh, she stood to shut it. “Why ask now?”

“Don’t I have a right to know?” she countered, but kept her temper in check. Azriel, as loyal as he was to his High Lady, didn’t follow her blindly. Mira felt like he was the only one who she could share her harsher critiques with, even if he knew she was coming from a point of bias while he maintained objectivity. Indeed, Rhys encouraged the Circle to voice their concerns, but they could be overruled, too. “I was ready to lay my life down, just like everyone else. I—”

“I remember.” Azriel stood, nearing as his gaze lowered to her thigh. Indeed, she had been so alarmed at the unexpected parties – which turned out to be allies – that an enemy’s sword had nearly cleaved her leg off. “I… felt it, when you went down. It wasn’t the shadows who told me, not at first.”

Mira paused, all the aggrieved remarks she had at the ready slipping from her mind. It was still hazy, but she remembered being hauled from the Sidra by Azriel’s strong arms, his grimy face tense as he pulled on the magic of his Siphons to stem the bleeding. She had never asked how he had managed to find her amidst all the blood and bodies, but now she knew – some residue left from the mating bond.

“I just want to know the truth.”

He glanced back up at Mira’s face. “Does this have something to do with Lucien?” Mira must have flared her wings, shifted into some sort of stance, because Azriel held up a hand as he took a step back. “I didn’t mean anything by it,” he murmured, averting his eyes.

Mira’s jaw worked for a moment, choosing her words carefully. “I’ve seen some of the looks he’s received. I just don’t think he deserves all of them.”

Azriel’s shadows curled over his shoulders as he considered her response, twisting around his ankles and pooling at his feet. The atmosphere had just turned tense before he nodded, and it was no quick dismissal – it was thoughtful, as if Azriel was inclined to agree. He returned to his desk, readying the materials for his next report.

“He demanded Hybern to stop, when it came to the Archeron sisters. A fruitless effort, maybe, but it rang clear enough for even me to take note of it. If Hybern or any of his other supposed allies were so inclined, it certainly could have costed Lucien his life. It was also him who found Vassa. Without them and the armies they brought, the tide of the war would not have turned. Indeed,” he paused, looking up with only a hint of a frown, “he played a key role. But history will not thank him for it.”

“I know,” Mira murmured, thoughts racing with all that Azriel had revealed. _Coward,_ Lucien had said about himself. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

Thanking Azriel, she opened the door.  “Remember to eat,” he intoned after her. “For your strength.”

Without missing a beat, she replied, “Remember the chamomile. For your head.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao i literally remember only like 10% of what actually happened, so im relying on wikia eee. bah, i should reread the series!! anyway, thank you for reading & i hope you enjoyed <3

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! x


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